Origin of the Body

by H. R. Moore

  Peter was losing patience, not catching her drift, ‘mother, what exactly are you trying to say? It sounds suspiciously like you’re about to throw in your lot with the Institution, for Gods’ sake.’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing, I sort of am. And furthermore, you shouldn’t call me mother, she should,’ she inclined her head in my direction and Peter’s mouth fell open. I frowned and tried to make some sense of what she’d said.

  ‘Sorry, what?’ I replied at last, lost for something more intelligent to say.

  ‘I’m your mother Clarissa, not his.’

  ‘I’m not your son?’ said Peter, looking as though his world was crumbling around him, as indeed it was. ‘Then whose son am I?’

  ‘You were swapped with Clarissa at birth. Her parents are in fact your parents.’

  I sat in silence as I took in what she was saying, astounded more by the way she had chosen to break the news than the words escaping her mouth, until at last I felt the need to speak. ‘Why?’ was all I could whisper, a small shadow of a word in a sea of deceit and confusion.

  ‘As I said, my mother was a radical, power-obsessed, she never wanted the Descendants’ reign to end. So she, Tobias, and I hatched a plan to make it so. All we had to do was put an end to one of the lines, meaning the prophecy could never be fulfilled and we would rule forever. As your mother was due to give birth around the same time as me, it seemed a perfect opportunity to swap the babies and tell the world the line was at an end. If Peter hadn’t been a boy, we would have found someone else, but as Imogen was my closest confident, it fitted together so perfectly in the end.’

  ‘And my father? Did he know of this too? And Peter’s father?’

  ‘No. The only ones that knew were Tobias, my mother, Imogen, and I. It seemed more likely we would succeed that way.’

  ‘So why are you telling us now?’ Peter spat. ‘You got away with it, nobody knows, nobody suspects. Why not just continue as you have?’

  ‘Because, as I said, I’ve had reason to reflect. I was a radical, but with my mother gone and her voice no longer sitting in my ear, I’ve heard views from a cross section of our world, from people who look up to me and expect me to fulfil my vow. People think I’m their only hope, they plead with me, offer to help me, send me gifts, and all the while, Tobias is playing the tyrant to an ever increasing degree. Even when my mother was alive, that was never the plan. The reason for the switch was twofold; to keep the Descendants in power, yes, but also to provide stability in the world, so people could live free lives and not have to worry about years of famine and fear like we had before. It seems to me that Tobias will single-handedly bring down that stability, entirely for his own gain, and I can’t sign up to that.’

  ‘You know, I felt so guilty for joining the Institution, like I was betraying you and all the good things you stand for; how laughable that seems now.’ Peter threw his chair back and stormed out, yanking the door open so hard it slammed into the wall with an almighty crash.

  I looked at Christiana, my mother, and couldn’t find a single thing to say. She didn’t look repentant, or sad, or angry. She was impenetrable. I have no idea what she was thinking, or if this was all just some game to her in which we, and everyone else, where insignificant little pawns. I placed my napkin down, drew my chair back in as dignified a manner as I could muster, and left the room, following Peter down the stairs and into an enormous drawing room, a fire blazing in the colossal hearth, Peter sitting on a pile of furs in front of it.

  There was a tension in the room that almost seemed to slow my movements, it sucked at my limbs as I entered. Even for an energy reader, I’m sure that kind of sight would be rare; the energy of a man whose identity had just been cruelly and unceremoniously wrenched away from him. And not just any identity; an identity that made him one of the most powerful people in the world, an identity with a destiny that the whole world cared about. He had a glass of whiskey in his hand and indicated for me to join him. I walked to the cabinet and poured myself a large amaretto over rocks of ice, the crystal glass shimmering in the light of the fire as I quietly sat down beside him.

  We drank in silence for a while, our questioning eyes meeting every now and again, each of us trying to draw some kind of answer from the other. Each of us was who the other had been only minutes before, but the new roles didn’t even begin to suit us, then again, nor did the old ones now. In a few effortless words our worlds had changed forever; everything we thought we knew was all wrong, all the rules that had bound us seemed to vanish. Peter reached up and pushed a stray strand of hair behind my ear, looking at me steadily as he ran his fingers down my neck, as though I were a new person to him, like he had never really seen me before, yet still his eyes told me he expected me to pull away. But behind his eyes was a reckless blankness; everything we based everything on had just been turned on its head, so how were we to tell what was right or wrong, or good or bad, or true or false? I leaned towards him and kissed his lips, then slowly pulled back to trace my fingers across them, my eyes taking in the lines I saw there, a frown on my forehead as I tried to find the answers my mind sought. I kissed him again, his hand moving from my neck, down my back, to my waist, where feather light caresses dulled my mind.

  Was this wrong? Did it matter? I’d never been attracted to Peter, he was a forgettable man, although I’d long suspected he felt differently about me. But then, when something as big as who you are can be a lie, what’s so wrong with something so small as a kiss, or a touch? He pulled away and drained his glass, discarding the crystal on the hearth before pulling me back to him and kissing me once more, his hands at the zip of my dress, pulling it open, sliding it away from my skin as he lowered me back onto the furs. He looked down at me, his eyes cloudy and unseeing, as though this might all be a dream, before his hands took charge, his mouth insistent, my body compliant, but refusing to feel anything at all.

  After that, we returned to our daily lives and said nothing to anyone, least of all each other. We never spoke of what had happened, nor did we do it again, it was as though the whole encounter was some farfetched figment of our imaginations. Until that was, a few days ago, when I found out I’m pregnant, and not only that, that Olivia, Peter’s wife, is too. I went to see Peter and told him the baby is his and that I think we should switch the babies when they’re born; we’d restore the rightful bloodline and the prophecy would be intact.

  ‘What about Olivia? And Jeffrey? We can’t do that to them.’ He’d immediately objected, Peter’s true, cautious nature showing through.

  I’d laughed at that, ‘do you have any idea what Jeffrey does to me on a near nightly basis? He runs to the beds of countless other women, seducing his way around Kingdom, for no greater reason than because he can. We have a chance to set things right, to do something for the good of the world. Surely Olivia’s feelings aren’t worth jeopardising that?’ He’d objected, throwing his hands around and making a great show, but eventually he came round. Even he couldn’t justify setting aside a chance to restore the prophecy, not when the only reason not to, was to spare his wife.

  23rd March, 1337.

  Part of me can’t believe I’m writing this down…if this were to ever be discovered, we’d all be killed. But then again, the chance that I might be killed and nobody ever know what we plan to do, is worse. After the birth, Jeffrey and our new born daughter, Mia, well, mine and Peter’s daughter, and I, moved to the Wild Lands to stay well away from Tobias and Christiana. In the end, Gwyneth, Olivia and Peter’s daughter, arrived three days before Mia, but with her birth came Olivia’s death. Peter was so distraught at the idea of having to give away his only link back to her that he refused to switch the children, saying instead that we can just bring out the secret when they’re older. I would have reasoned with him, but Jeffrey turned up, ready for us to leave for Wild Air, so I had to go, silently swearing to find a way to switch them later.

  We had almost three good years in Wild Air, learning a great deal from the Spirit Lead
er and his monks, who live atop the tallest of the numerous mountains there. That was until Peter sent me word that Tobias is on the war path. Apparently he’s recently become paranoid about the prophecy and wants me and Mia dead. Christiana has been doing everything in her power to deter him, but Peter thinks we should switch the children now; finally he’s seen sense. So two days ago Jeffrey and I returned to Kingdom, the last place Tobias would expect to find us, and waited for Peter to return from Empire. He’s been living in the farmhouse we used to visit, keeping Gwyn away from prying eyes; nobody is allowed to visit and he never takes her where people can see her. He arrived today, so tonight we plan to switch the children, in the Temple of the Body at midnight, so at least I’ll be able to say happy birthday to my darling daughter before I give her away. After that, I’ll leave Jeffrey and return into the Wild, I’ll become someone else and Tobias will never be able to find us. Mia will be safe posing as Gwyn, and Peter can begin to introduce her to the world as his daughter, which of course, she is.’

  The diary ended abruptly with no further entries, the full weight of what she had just read hitting Anita hard, a mix of dawning realisations and flood of questions. This neither confirmed nor denied that she was the true Body Descendant, however, either way, if Clarissa truly was her mother, it would seem that Peter was in fact her father, making Gwyn her half-sister, and meaning Cordelia wasn’t her blood grandmother. Furthermore, it said nothing of what happened to Clarissa, whether the switch was successful, what happened to her, or if she really died. For all Anita knew, she and Jeffrey could be living out their lives in the Wild Lands even now…

  Alexander had been watching her since she’d finished reading, waiting for her to speak. She met his eyes but didn’t really see him, her grey eyes flitting occasionally from his left eye to his right, brow furrowed, holding her breath as she processed the implications. He lifted his hand to her cheek, caressing her skin gently, the motion snapping her out of her thoughts. She raised her hand to his and pulled it away from her face, ‘Gwyn and I are sisters,’ she said, brow still furrowed, the notion still not making any sense to her.

  Alexander suppressed a laugh, ‘it would seem so. And Peter is your father. I’m not sure which is worse.’

  Anita raised her eyebrows, shaking her head, not quite sure what to say. ‘Bitch face...my sister.’

  ‘On second thoughts, you’re right, that bit is worse.’

  Chapter 4

  Anita and Alexander entered the potting shed that was hidden around the side of the farmhouse, the entrance partially screened by an enormous trailing wisteria. As they stepped inside, Anita was struck by how light and airy the unexpectedly large space was. The roughly whitewashed walls bounced the light from four skylights above and there were windows and a door the other side that led to a secret garden, only accessible through the potting shed, or rather more accurately, comfortably decked out potting room. Down one end were two old, worn, linen covered sofas with a low, white table in between that was covered with bits of broken pots, packets of seeds, some flower heads, and a healthy sprinkling of compost. The wall space was mostly taken up with shelves full of terracotta pots and dressers with hundreds of small drawers that Anita assumed must contain a plethora of different kinds of seeds. In the middle and at the other end were potting benches, each with piles of pots, compost, sand and stones.

  They entered to find Helena unceremoniously dropping seeds, one at a time, into a wooden tray full of compost. She didn’t look up until she had gently pressed each one in and given the tray a drenching, using a metal watering can that had clearly seen better days. Helena placed the tray to one side, finally acknowledging her visitors and indicating that they should take a seat on one of the sofas. Helena moved to the large Belfast sink that stood in front of the window overlooking the secret garden, washed her hands, then filled up an old copper kettle and placed it on the small gas ring that stood to the side of the sink. Without saying a word to either of them, she disappeared out of the door into the garden beyond.

  Anita and Alexander looked at each other, bemused. ‘Should we follow her?’ Anita asked softly.

  Alexander shook his head, ‘no. I think she would rather we wait here.’

  ‘She seems nervous,’ said Anita, a little alarmed. Helena had been her closest friend and mentor for almost her entire childhood, and in that whole time, Anita could think of perhaps one, maybe two, other occasions when Helena had seemed even a little nervous, unsure, or out of control.

  ‘I’m not surprised. She wants something from you and she doesn’t know how to make you give it to her,’ he said, cynically. Anita gave a little shrug of her shoulders, indicating his analysis was as good an explanation as any, not that they had time to dwell, as the door again swung open and Helena returned, in her hand a large bunch of freshly picked peppermint.

  Helena removed the now boiling water from the stove, stuffed the mint into a large, chipped, tea pot, filled it with water and swirled it around a bit for good measure. She then picked up three mugs in her other hand and made her way over to sit with them on the sofas, leaving the mint to infuse for a while before pouring. She looked expectantly at Anita, waiting for her to start given that Anita and Alexander had sought her out rather than the other way round.

  ‘I read the diary,’ Anita started, matter of factly. ‘And other than delivering the disturbing news that Gwyn is my half-sister and Peter my father - assuming I truly am one of the little girls in the diary - we learned frankly very little. It didn’t say if the child switch was successful or otherwise, and therefore neither affirmed nor denied that I’m the Body Descendant. It didn’t say what happened to Clarissa and Jeffrey. It didn’t explain why you had me try to steal a memory from Austin...it’s sparked a load more questions without answering any of the ones I’ve got already.’

  Helena took in Anita’s words, gauging how to respond. Pondering, she picked up the tea pot, swirled it again and poured the contents into the mugs, ignoring the stray leaves that found their way out of the spout along with the tea. She handed a mug to each of them, inhaling deeply before she began.

  ‘I’m sorry the diary didn’t answer any of your questions. Clarissa wanted you to have it; she gave it to me before she went to the Temple that night. She told me to give it to you when you were old enough to understand...’

  ‘...which you didn’t,’ Anita blurted, unable to contain her anger.

  ‘Which I didn’t,’ Helena agreed, her body language that of a person walking on egg shells. ‘You’ll soon understand why.’ She looked down into her tea, taking a tentative sip of the still piping hot contents. ‘I’ll answer all your questions, anything you want to know I’ll tell you, but I need you to open the cylinder in your mind. We believe the contents could be the key to saving the world.’

  ‘I’ve heard that one somewhere before,’ Anita commented pitilessly, her eyes stone cold. ‘Let’s start with you answering our questions, including what was in the brass cylinder belonging to Austin you convinced me to steal – supposedly in order to save the world – and then maybe we’ll agree to help you.’

  Helena sighed, irritated. She was defeated and had not a single bargaining chip, but that didn’t mean she found it any less goading that Anita was ordering her around. ‘Okay. If that’s what you want, ask away, but I’m not starting with the cylinder.’

  Anita saw no point in arguing, she would get her answer soon enough, so she started with her mother. ‘So whose daughter am I? Clarissa’s or Olivia’s?’

  ‘Clarissa’s.’

  ‘How can you be sure? The diary said Clarissa was going to swap her daughter with Olivia’s that night in the Temple, but it doesn’t say she was successful.’

  ‘Peter told me and Alistair you were never swapped. Not at your birth, because after Olivia’s death, Peter couldn’t do it, and not after the fire, because he thought it right Cordelia should at least be granted the courtesy of looking after the child Jeffrey had spent more time with.’

&n
bsp; ‘What fire? The fire at the Temple? The one my father died in?’ Alexander asked, a feeling of excited dread filling him as he realised Helena might also be about to unlock one of the great mysteries in his life.

  Helena turned her head to take in Alexander. She had always thought he was a perfect mix of his parents; her cousin Celia, his mother, had given him his strength, and his father, Anthony, had given him adaptability, such a rare and successful combination. ‘Yes, the same fire. Maybe I should just show you all I know from when Clarissa gave me the diary?’

  ‘If you can,’ Alexander nodded.

  Anita looked confused, ‘what do you mean, show us all you know?’

  ‘It’s a relatively new form of meditation,’ said Alexander, ‘you essentially replay memories in a joint meditation. It’s a bit like opening a brass cylinder, but the mind of the leader determines what you see.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Anita, ‘if that’s the best way.’

  ‘With three of us, we shouldn’t need to touch,’ said Helena, folding her legs under her on the sofa, ‘assuming you two know what you’re doing?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Alexander, shooting Helena a look as he took hold of Anita’s hand and crossed his legs, Anita following suit.

  ‘Good. See you on the other side then,’ said Helena, all three of them closing their eyes.

  Alexander and Anita felt a plunging rush, their insides flipping as they came to a hurtling stop inside what looked like a very ordinary office. They looked around, taking in shelves packed full of books and brass cylinders, white walls covered with complex academic diagrams on ragged, yellowing paper, and a shabby wooden desk, behind which Helena was sitting, already pulling a selection of brass cylinders towards her.