by Earl, Collin
Not learn…he did not have to learn. He had to remember. There was a difference.
Monson closed his eyes again as he considered his accumulated experiences over the past months. He thought back to the first day he awoke in the hospital, the pain that raked his body and mind, and the pitying looks of unfamiliar individuals. He recalled with greater detail the distinct inner ache like the pain of his body, soul and consciousness existed on separate planes. He thought about all the other weird feelings and emotions he had been having over the course of the year. The feeling of being watched, the feeling of being probed, the feeling of being invincible, the feeling of being loved. Loved? Was he loved? Could he really be loved? It was this last thought that hit him the hardest.
A soft breeze was blowing as the spring air wafted around him, bringing on another of those distinct feelings. A calm and strangely reflective one that was both warm and comforting. A rare burst of spring sunshine filled the clearing and surrounding area, making him feel the experience of the here and the now, like so many others, held something both familiar and important. It was like a favorite childhood song long dismissed, but not forgotten, flowed through his heart—his very soul. The strange feelings and his occasional recognition of what had once been familiar and common had become almost second nature for Monson since his awakening so many months ago. He and his memories were one and the same. He was constantly revisiting them, like favorite songs from a record played over and over again. But he was always left wondering what he was missing—what was on the scratched portion of that record—and if it would ever come back. Despite their weight, he was not worried about his missing memories now. There was something sweet about the tickle he felt in his heart and though it made him wish more than ever to know where it was coming from, he could not help but smile at the warmth that suddenly enveloped him. It was then, in that special moment, that something seemed to break inside of him and he heard another vaguely familiar voice burst out from within that dark inner chasm that was his mind. It was a husky voice that boasted of both confidence and wisdom. It was a very nice voice; one that he had forgotten…until now.
“The blade—Monson, call upon the blade; heart, mind, body, focus, my son.”
Strange images flashed across Monson’s mind as the voice echoed all around him. A towering mountain, larger than any he had ever seen in any of his daydreams or nightmares, loomed in the distance and a beautifully paved path graced its edge, skirting around until it eventually wound up the face of the mountain.
Monson felt the familiar once more wash over him. He recognized this place.
Monson walked towards the path, to start on this path…his pathway of power…but unrecognizable symbols sailed through his consciousness, body and soul, stopping him from moving any farther. The symbols burned with light and power. Burned...something else was burning...
“Arghhhhh!” screamed Monson, as he hit the ground. Tears flowed fast and full as memories of the past wracked his heart, seeping through the cracks of the path and the symbols that impeded him. The memories overshadowed and overcame the strange burning pain that thrashed his body and mind. He viewed a small portion of his past, grabbing hold of the memories and viewing them in all their painful glory. Monson’s heart stopped in his chest.
Monson realized that he knew; he had known all along.
His grandfather had known about magic. About Monson’s magic! He had taught him the key to it. Why, damn it, why could he not remember?
The blocking symbols rallied, attempting to take back what had already been given up. The pain burned, but the fire of Monson’s heart resisted the symbols, resisted until the pain dulled and finally died away.
He heard distant voices, faint echoes that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere simultaneously. Someone was calling his name.
“Master Grey!” Monson dimly heard a voice he recognized as Marie’s. He suddenly felt two surprisingly strong hands touch his face and opened his eyes to see Marie leaning over him.
“Are you all right?” she asked softly, cradling his head in her arms.
“Yeah,” said Monson through watery eyes. The burning, blocking symbols melted from his vision. “I think I just remembered something important.”
“Quite the understatement, Mr. Grey. It seems we all have something to share.” Grayson came from behind them. “Catch your breath, then you go first.”
Monson took several deep breaths, relaxing as the pain subsided. “Grayson, how much does your organization really know about Scripting?”
Grayson gave Monson a look of comprehension and did not miss a beat. “Quite a bit; though like I said, none of us can currently do it. We know that the process involves special runes, like the one on Grandfather’s journal. ”
“Can you show me?” Monson pointed to a patch of dirt not far from where he was sitting. “Can you write them out for me?’
“I can do better than that. Come here,” said Grayson as he gestured at the same dirt clearing.
Monson made to get up but Marie stopped him.
“I am not sure you should stand yet, Master Grey.” She cradled him protectively.
“I’m OK, Marie, thank you,” said Monson though he let her continue to hold him. “Well, Grayson, what do we got?”
Grayson was rifling through a stack of paper placed neatly in his lap. Others peeked out from a bag on the side of his chair. After a moment, he pulled out three or four sheets from the stack and handed them to Monson.
“What are these?” Monson took the papers from Grayson.
Grayson pointed at the various runes. “Various scripts that we believe represent certain natural phenomena.”
“Natural phenomena? You mean like gravity?”
“Yes, but I haven’t seen something that complex or at least, not that I can decipher. Those in your hands, we think, are the signs for water, lighting and fire. If you look at the drawings on page 980 of the journal, you’ll see why we came to that conclusion.”
“Fire, water and lighting,” said Monson, more to himself than to the others. He looked at each of the different symbols, trying to take in every line and contour. He closed his eyes and tried to match the symbols on the paper to the shapes he had seen in his memory. It was no good. He sighed. This seemed way too simple. Could these writings really have magical power? And if so, what was it about these runes that made them so special? Then there was the problem that he had already performed magic and could not remember using signs of any sort. The magic seemed to just come out of him and adjust to the way he was feeling, but that didn’t seem to be right. He just didn’t know. There were too many unknowns, too many missing variables. He wasn’t sure what to do. The murky marshes of his messed up memories weren’t helping either.
Grayson cut in. “What are you seeing that we aren’t?”
“I think I remembered something from my past,” answered Monson. “Something that doesn’t really make sense.”
“How so?” Marie asked in her quiet, calm voice.
“I heard his voice,” said Monson without bothering to explain who “he” was. “I think he was trying to teach me about magic, and I think...I think these runes are the key.”
“Scripting, Grey; if he was teaching magic in connection with these runes then he was teaching you Scripting!” Grayson’s voice splashed over the clearing with excitement.
“I don’t know, it seems a little too convenient.”
Grayson shook his head vigorously. “Before you convince yourself otherwise, take a look at this.”
Marie pulled out an expensive-looking digital video camera seemingly from nowhere and presented it to Grayson, who in turn showed it to Monson.
“This is what happened right before you hit the ground screaming.”
Grayson opened the small LCD screen, pressed play, and handed it over to Monson who took it hesitantly. He watched himself on the screen. He was not very engaging. He was just standing in the middle of the same clearing, eyes closed, waiting.
His thought was interrupted when the screen caught his eye. A faint, but thoroughly distinct outline of color was starting to appear on his hands, head and forearms. Monson’s eyes flashed away from the camera screen to inspect his actual limbs. He saw nothing. He refocused on the screen to see himself fall to the ground and the strange color pulsing in and out.
“Look at the lines of the color,” said Grayson quietly. “They aren’t as random as they might appear.”
Monson watched the screen with even greater concentration as the light from his skin intensified, which forced him to squint, leaving annoying imprinted shadows on his corneas. He continued to watch for a moment more until—
Monson Grey gasped, his eyes widening. He whipped towards Grayson for confirmation. Grayson merely nodded his head, aware that Monson understood. The supposedly random scars from the bridge incident last May were not random at all. They were runes… magic runes.
Markings, memory, powers and paths, a Being of Seven Bloods sent to save the worlds. Monson tried not to wretch.
“What does it mean?” Marie asked.
“What does it mean?” Monson grappled with the only logical conclusion. “It means that someone performed magic…on me…and that these scars, these runes, were placed on me at the time of the attack….”
“Which means that the terrorist attack and the destruction of the bridge,” interrupted Grayson, “may not have been directed at the bridge but instead at….”
Monson’s expression soured. “At me. That means…that I had something to do with the explosion...and...and…oh no…no…all those people…what have I done?”
With that simple statement, Monson Grey fell to his knees and wept.
***
It took some time for Monson to calm down. The deaths of so many people; the thought hung over his head like a blackened, murderous halo. The thought of it made his stomach turn and the taste of bile in his mouth drove him to the brink of insanity.
What could he do? What relief was there to be had? Was he truly the harbinger of disaster? Was it better that he never get his memory back and his power under control? He did not know and it was tearing him apart to think of it.
Anguished, scared and confused, he did not know how he should continue. His grandfather had once lived as a recluse; maybe it was time to pick that up himself. He could leave it all. Leave his friends, the only family he currently knew, and go somewhere where all others were out of his destructive reach. A lonely existence, yes, but a just sentence for someone like him.
“It’s not your fault.”
Marie touched Monson’s scarred face and lovingly wiped away his tears like a mother would a child.
Monson felt inclined to speak, even to give himself a moment’s distraction. “You don’t know that! What other conclusion is there? How could I not be responsible?”
“Because you are the hero, Monson Grey. My master believes it. You are the one who will save us all. From what, I do not know, but you are the hero of this story. Of that I am sure.” She slowly pulled Monson to his feet and gently brushed off his clothes. Then, she slapped him across the face. “You are the hero! Act like it.”
His cheek burned, but it was not unpleasant. Instinctively, Monson straightened up. Marie smiled and hugged him.
“That’s better.”
More time passed as Grayson and Marie busied themselves in the clearing in an attempt to “record” the rune. Grayson took many pictures of Monson, making sure to get multiple shots from different angles. Monson stood placidly and prayed that this area was as deserted as Grayson had described earlier. Grayson finished up and gestured to the others. They started to make their way out of the trees.
Monson lingered before moving on, attempting to block the feelings that bubbled beneath the surface. A murderous demon or a hero? Could he be both? Now, more than ever, he had to find out.
“We never did get around to messing around with that glove,” observed Monson as they made their way out of the trees, pausing periodically as Grayson navigated the brush.
“I feel like we’ve moved closer to the truth, though,” said Grayson. “Now if only we could have you consciously access your power again, we could put this Scripting ‘rune’ theory to the test.”
“Yeah, I guess we’ll have to wait on that one,” Monson replied dully.
Grayson paused and seemed to be searching for words. “Marie wasn’t lying, you know—you are the hero, Monson. I know you are. Remember that.”
Monson forced a smile. “Thanks Grayson.”
Grayson gave him a small smack on the lower back and then said in an attempt to return to normal conversation, “Why don’t you hang on to this.” He tossed Monson the chain mail glove.
“Why?” Monson fingered the glove. “Do you really think it’s a good idea for me to have this?”
“Maybe it will jog some memories,” said Grayson with a shrug. “For some reason I suddenly feel like it belongs to you.”
“Thanks,” replied Monson as he turned his attention to the glove. He ran his hands down the guard with its indentation and symbols. It was then that he noticed something.
“Grayson,” Monson stopped and propped up the glove so Grayson could get a good look. “Isn’t this the symbol for lighting you showed me earlier?”
“Yes it is.”
“Interesting.” Monson traced the outline of the symbol. “What do you suppose it does?”
“I was hoping you could tell me that.”
“Oh.”They again lapsed into silence as the three continued along the rock path near the old dormitory. It was getting dark, the occasional bursts of sunshine subsiding as dark clouds blanketed the area with gloom. Maybe it was the bleak atmosphere, but Monson found his senses slightly heightened as he was overcome by a strong feeling of impending danger.
“Wait!” He motioned to Marie and Grayson to stop as a strange shiver made its way up his spine.
“Monson do not move!” commanded the voice of Dawn at the front of his mind.
“Where have you been?” Monson felt relief as Dawn’s voice assaulted him.
“What was that, Monson?” Marie shouted over a shoulder.
“I have always been here,” answered Dawn angrily.
“Then why didn’t you help me earlier?”
“I will explain later.” Dawn was almost shouting. “But for right now just listen to me and tell the others to remain still.”
“But why do they—”
“DO IT Monson Grey; no arguments!”
Monson did so, and though he received startled and confused looks from his two companions, they complied immediately.
“OK, now what?” asked Monson.
“Something very dangerous is near, something unnatural and foreign.”
“What is it?”
“I cannot explain as I do not know for sure, but something does not feel right. Monson, where are we? What is this place?"
Monson started to answer but Dawn cut him off instantly.
“Wait, never mind. Right now move the other two as close to you as possible. I am shielding your presence from whatever it is that is awakening but I do not know what will happen if your companions stray too far.”
Monson turned towards the other two, telling them that Dawn had contacted him and that they were in some kind of danger.
“What do we do?” Grayson asked.
“Stay close to me,” answered Monson. “Try not to make any noise.”
***
“What was that all about?” blurted out Grayson as they crossed the threshold of Monson’s apartment.
“I don’t really know.” Monson pointed to his head, indicating Dawn. “He just said that he sensed something very dangerous was near and that we needed to leave.”
“Do you think there are other magic users in the school?” asked Marie. “Ones
you do not know about?”
Monson sat in one of his large leather chairs. “What do you mean, ‘ones you don’t know about?’ Are there ones I should know about?”
Marie gestured before she answered, indicating her desire to busy herself in the kitchenette. Monson nodded in approval. She retrieved some bottled waters from the icebox and passed them around. “Aren’t your friends magic users?”
Monson felt the abrupt and overwhelming desire to punch himself in the face. He was a moron, a giant moron. Of course his friends had used magic, inadvertently or not; that was the only way they could have done some of the amazing things they did. Why had he not thought of it before?
Maybe because the idea that magic actually exists was new to him. And totally insane–even with all that had happened, he was still having problems really believing. Strange.
Grayson rolled his chair to the far side of the room. “I wouldn’t think about it too much. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
“How do you figure?” asked Monson.
“Very simple,” said Grayson. “Just remember what Dawn said, anyone can use magic given the right mind-set.”
“So you think the fact that there is something dangerous enough out there to seriously alarm Dawn and the fact that I’m supposed to be some sort of destined savior are unrelated?”
“I don’t know for sure. But as far as I can tell, there isn’t anything to indicate others here at Coren beside the Being of Seven Bloods, which is you. And it would be quite the coincidence for another magic user to end up here as well. We’ll know more after I report in to my handler at H.U.M.A.N.E.”
“You’re probably right,” said Monson, and in a way, he was relieved. He did not know what the future held but at least he could expect his friends to remain safe. If they were not true magic users and therefore not mixed up in all the magic stuff, and if they remained clear of him, then maybe he could keep them out of whatever craziness he was involved in. A dim hope, yes, but the only one he had right now.