The Felix Chronicles: Freshmen

by R. T. Lowe

  Elissa, time is short. I have only minutes before Lyndsey comes for this. She will find you. Six months before your 28th birthday, you will immaculately conceive a child—a boy. Do not be scared. You must protect your son at all costs. I love you. You will soon understand why I sent you away.

  I will start from the beginning. The Ancients discovered it. Some say the Egyptians were the first, others the Mesopotamians, and still others say it was the peoples who dwelled in the jungles west of the Great River. The knowledge of its discovery has been lost to time. But it was the Druids who adopted it as their God and worshipped it, unlocking its secrets. It was they who named it the SOURCE, the wellspring from which all life flows, the energy that if darkened will extinguish the sun and all life with it. The Druids ritualized the training of those rare individuals born with the gift to draw energy from it to manipulate what most consider the natural order of things. They called them ‘Sourcerors’ and they were honored above all others. It was the mightiest among them, a man named Myrddin, whose prophecy forever changed the world.

  Myrddin’s prophecy, known as THE WARNING, is a vision of the future that has been passed down through the ages: It tells us that we have a symbiotic relationship with the Source. It is not just an unalterable wellspring of energy—the Source is like a mirror that absorbs and reflects the state of humankind, constantly changing as we change. In the beginning, the Source was perfect and we were not the base creatures we are today, practically immortal, living without disease or hardship. But with each act of human cruelty, each act of human evil, we damaged ourselves, and in turn, we damaged the Source. It is a cycle that is vicious like no other: as the Source diminishes and darkens, so does human nature, heralding a final tipping point—the SUFFERING TIMES. On that day of judgment, if the Source is not healed, it will die, and none shall be left to witness its passing.

  Yet the Source cannot be healed unless we heal ourselves. Our relationship with the source is one of mutual dependency, and as such, the Source can only be repaired through our actions—humankind must first be healed. To restore itself, the Source will deliver the two fated ones. The first will be the DRESTIAN. If he prevails, nations will burn, armies will fall at his feet, and all who refuse to succumb to his rule will be slaughtered like sheep. The Drestian will restore the Source, but at a steep cost: our freedoms will be stripped from us and we shall become his slaves. The second will be a boy born to a woman undefiled—the BELUS—and only he can defeat the Drestian. If the Belus prevails, then we must restore the Source through our own deeds for the Belus cannot restore the Source on his own. We shall be free. Free to repair what we have damaged and free to destroy what was once perfect. Our fate, and the fate of the world, will be in our own hands.

  Centuries passed. The Emperor Constantine learned of The Warning and prepared for the arrival of the fated ones. He sought out all Sourcerors and created a secret society—the Order of Belus, which he organized into five Fortresses, each led by a master Sourceror, its purpose to find the Belus.

  But it is not in man’s nature to endure consensus for long. A faction within the Order soon emerged that did not share the belief that the Belus was the path to humanity’s salvation. This rival group of Sourcerors, calling themselves DRESTIANITES, believed that non-Sourcerors—‘WISPS’—were responsible for damaging the Source, and therefore deserving of the punishment and enslavement foretold by The Warning. While the Wisps will be reduced to slavery by the Drestian, the Drestianites believe they will be rewarded for their loyalty and will rule the world alongside him.

  Even before the Order split into opposing factions, they were harassed at every turn by the PROTECTORS, a society of assassins who viewed themselves as the guardians of the Source. The Protector’s philosophy is simple: Sourcerors damaged the Source by going beyond their intended boundaries to use it for their own selfish needs; if they are allowed to live, they will eventually destroy it, causing all life to come to an end. The only way to guarantee the survival of the Source, therefore, is to kill every last Sourceror, regardless of whether they owe their allegiance to the Belus or the Drestian. From the time of Constantine, the Protectors have kept records of the Sourceror bloodlines and have tirelessly tracked down and killed anyone with a drop of Sourceror blood.

  For a thousand years, there was a kind of uneasy balance. The Order searched for the Belus, the Drestianites awaited the Drestian, and both waged war against the Protectors, and sometimes, each other. Then in the year 1250, a Sourceror named Isabella became the master of the First Fortress and everything changed. The leader of the Drestianites convinced her to relinquish her loyalty—to join the Drestianites—and they made a pact: He would abdicate his title to her, and in return, she would sacrifice the entire Order. The pact would forever be known as Isabella’s Deceit.

  Isabella called a gathering of the five Fortresses to a forest in northern France. It was there that the Drestianites sprung their trap. But before they could finish their ambush, they themselves were ambushed. The Protectors had learned of the gathering and had allied themselves with King Louis IX, who desired the vast treasures the Order was rumored to possess in its Fortresses. The King’s archers let loose their arrows, raining down death upon the unsuspecting Sourcerors, the Order and the Drestianites alike. When the last arrow fell, men on horses clad in armor and foot soldiers with long spears and tall shields attacked from all sides.

  Nearly every Sourceror was killed in the initial onslaught, yet those who survived unleashed their wrath upon King Louis’ army in a manner that will never be forgotten. During the battle, the earth heaved, the heavens thundered, and the forest was leveled. When it was over, the number of dead could not easily be counted. The King’s army had been wiped clean from the land. Thousands of Protectors lay dead. And of the Drestianites and the Order of Belus, all but a few left their lives on the field of battle—including Isabella. It is said that so many lives were lost that day the land itself perished. The rivers ran red and the skies cried tears of blood for a hundred years.

  King Louis ransacked the Fortresses and burned the Order’s strongholds to the ground. The Order was scattered across Europe, too weak and too disorganized to recruit new Sourcerors. The Protectors intensified their offensive, and like bloodhounds, the assassins tracked down the Sourcerors and murdered them. The fight was over. The Protectors had won. There was only one thing left to do. In order to survive, the last of the Sourcerors went into hiding.

  Our family name is Tinshire, Elissa. We were once the most powerful of the Sourceror families. But after Isabella’s Deceit, we survived by hiding in the shadows, moving from country to country and from town to town, changing our names, and separating at the first sign that the Protectors had discovered us.

  Our numbers dwindled. Many Tinshires did not even know the name Tinshire. But that did not stop the Protectors from killing our young in their cribs. They knew who we were even when we were blind to our own identities. The Tinshires were on the verge of extinction. And then a very strange thing occurred. There were two Tinshire sisters one year apart in age. The older sister became pregnant and had a girl. Then the younger sister became pregnant with a girl—but she was a virgin. She became pregnant when she was exactly the same age as when her sister had become pregnant. The Tinshires call this phenomenon the CYCLE. The Cycle repeats itself whenever there are two sisters and the older of the two becomes pregnant. We believe the Cycle is the Source’s way of preserving the Tinshire bloodline.

  Before you could even walk, our father was killed in an accident. When a Tinshire dies in an ‘accident’, it means the Protectors have found you. You, me and our mother changed our names and moved from Pinder to Evinlock. Five years later, our mother was killed in a car accident. We had no other family. It was just you and me. I had to protect you. So I did what we Tinshires have done since the time of Isabella’s Deceit—I sent you away. For you, it was the west coast of America to live with people I trusted. They were not really our aunt and uncle. As I sai
d, you and I are the last of the Tinshires.

  I had to do everything in my power to shield you from the Protectors. I had to cut off all ties. I could not call you or write. I hope you understand now that I had no other choice. Sending you away, and being away from you for all this time, has caused me endless pain. It is like a wound that never heals. But I do not regret my decision.

  I moved to London. One day, a man approached me and asked if I was ‘Eve Tinshire’. I thought he was a Protector. Then I realized who it was. He told me his name was Dietrich Ashfield. The introduction was not necessary. Everyone in England knows of him. He asked me to come to his castle. Curious, I agreed.

  He introduced me to his father, Hermann. Then they asked me to ‘show them something’. I knew what they meant, but I feigned ignorance. I asked a question of my own. I asked them what they wanted of me. Then they answered. I had showed them ‘something’ without them even knowing. Our mother called it PERSUASION. The Source touches Sourcerors in different ways.

  Hermann and Dietrich had come into the possession of a manuscript (no time to explain how) called Constantine’s Manifesto which contains The Warning and a history of the Order. Hermann and Dietrich believed the Suffering Times were upon us and the Drestian’s arrival imminent. They were searching for Sourcerors to rebuild the Order. I was the first, and unfortunately, the last—they found no others. From the very day of my arrival, they insisted I stay in the castle where they could protect me. If I had just left, then none of this would have happened.

  That is where I live to this day—happily for many years. I will not lie to you: At first, I felt like a princess in her castle. And having sent you to live with strangers in a strange country, I felt terrible that I was so happy. It was so unfair. There were so many times I thought about asking Dietrich to bring you home. But something inside me—a voice I always imagined was our mother’s—warned me against it.

  Dietrich and I fell in love. It seems strange, that I, a virtual vagabond, would fall in love with the heir to the Ashfield Empire. But it happened. And it was real. Then I became pregnant. Dietrich insisted we marry. He wanted me to know his love was true. Proof was not necessary, but I accepted and became Eve Ashfield.

  My pregnancy was utter torment. Dietrich, however, was thrilled. He wanted to be a father. But I knew he and Hermann hoped my child would be another Sourceror—one who might perhaps re-establish the Order. I could not blame them. They thought they had their secrets. But the one keeping secrets was me: They did not know about the Cycle. They did not know about you. And they did not know you were destined to conceive a child in twenty-one years. And if I were to have a son, you would have a son. A son born without a father—the Belus.

  What would that mean for my son? I kept asking myself. If your son was destined to be the Belus, then wouldn’t my son be the Drestian? But how could the Drestian come from me? From my body? I knew I had choices. I could have ended the pregnancy. But I chose not to. I had the baby. A boy. We named him Lofton.

  That seems so long ago—so many years have passed. Now you are 24—you will be pregnant in just 3 years. And in all this time, I have never told the Ashfields about you or the Cycle—and I never will.

  From the very beginning it was obvious that Lofton was a powerful Sourceror. At six months, he exploded a jar of pureed peas to express his distaste. As a toddler, whenever he was near mechanical equipment it would turn on and off on its own. At five, he could manipulate his toys to chase his grandfather around the castle. I watched for the signs he might be the Drestian. But there were none—at first. In the years that followed, Lofton was at times good-natured and innocent, the furthest thing from what I imagined the Drestian would be. And then there were times when I questioned what he was. Out in the courtyard one day, he created fire and unleashed it on a horse, turning the poor animal into ash in seconds.

  Lofton has done other cruel things over the years, like with the horse, but I know it gives him no pleasure. But I also know he has no aversion to doing it. He will do anything as long as it serves a purpose.

  You should always be wary of the Protectors even though Dietrich and Hermann believe they have disbanded. With the Sourcerors either dead or unaware of what they are, the Protectors’ mission has been accomplished. Even so, I worried about Lofton like any mother would. At 13, Lofton began sneaking out of the castle at night. To do what, I cannot say. I admonished him and reminded him of the dangers, but he just smiled and said, “Really, mother. You honestly believe that I have anything to fear from someone who thinks a knife and a garrote are weapons?”

  It was about that time I suspected he was the Drestian. He sensed it and began concealing things from me—his abilities. I tried to persuade him to talk to me, but he knew what I was doing. His mind was closed to me. It always has been to an extent. He may be my son, but

  “Felix! Felix! Felix!”

  The voice sounded like it was calling to him from the other side of the ocean.

  “Felix! Come on now. Felix! Wake up. That’s it. You’re doing fine. Just stay where you are. Here, have some soda. The caffeine will help. Come on now, snap out of it.”

  Felix found himself staring down at a mottled piece of paper with writing on it. The page was full. The ink was good. A ballpoint. No blots. The last word on it, he noticed, was “but.” He realized he was sitting in a chair. There was a table in front of him. He blinked. Everything went dark and then flashed white. The piece of paper, he knew, connected to other pieces of paper and all together, they formed a book—a journal. His aunt’s journal. A silver can with looping black and red script intruded on the space between his face and the journal. A Diet Coke can. The can looked small because the hand holding it was big, the fingers long and thick. Felix turned his head to the right and saw a face. He focused on the nose. It looked like a boxer’s nose.

  “Here,” the man said, looking at him anxiously. “Just have a drink. I know this is hard.”

  Felix made no effort to take the can. He didn’t move. The man’s name came to him: Bill. The room was out of focus, distorted. His peripheral vision was graying around the edges. The world was bending in strange ways. He felt nauseous. His stomach heaved. He dropped his head between his knees and threw up on the floor. He didn’t care. He wiped his mouth. It came away smelling like a protein bar.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Bill said, standing up straight and sliding back a few feet. “That’s fine. Just have a drink.” He held the can out to Felix. “You’ll feel better.”

  Felix wanted to leave. He just wasn’t sure if his legs were working; he couldn’t feel them. His stomach churned. His head throbbed. The room was tilting and spinning. It was making him sick. He threw up again. Less volume this time, but the smell was even worse.

  Bill watched him as the seconds (minutes? hours?) ticked by.

  Felix strained the limits of his voice to choke out two words: “What happened?”

  “You read the journal.” Bill pointed at it. “Remember? The journal.”

  Felix stared at it numbly. “I don’t understand.” His voice sounded weak, distant.

  Bill set the can down on the table, reaching over Felix’s shoulder to stay clear of the mess on the floor. “Of course you don’t. Your aunt’s journal is cursed. That’s how I think of it anyway. Did you feel like you were experiencing someone else’s emotions? Well—that’s because you were. Your dead aunt’s. When you read the journal you feel what your Aunt Eve was feeling. You’re drawn into her emotions. You can’t escape from them. That’s why it’s so extraordinarily difficult to stop reading once you’ve started. I’ve also learned the hard way there are physical consequences: disorientation, nausea, headaches and confusion. Basically, what you’re…”

  The words passed over him like a gust of wind. Some time passed. How much, Felix would never know.

  “…allows you to tap into the feelings of another person who was writing in another time. The experience creates a kind of disconnect, or sensory overload th
at confuses your central nervous system. We’re obviously not designed to feel someone else’s emotions. That’s just my theory, anyway. There’s no way to validate it because a book like this has never existed.”

  He couldn’t focus on what Bill was saying. He didn’t even try. He just needed his legs to work. More time passed.

  “…and despite what everyone thinks about him, he’s actually the Drestain. You know who Lofton Ashfield is, don’t you?”

  Felix didn’t answer.

  “Felix?”

  Felix’s brain felt like a garbage disposal had chewed it up. Words and phrases were spinning around like a cyclone in his head: Drestian, Belus, Elissa, Drestianites, Protectors, Tiberius 14-37, Caligula 37-41, Claudius…

  “Felix?”

  No response.

  “You’re the Belus,” Bill told him. “Do you understand? You’re not just a Sourceror. You are the Belus.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Felix couldn’t listen to this any more. He stood abruptly and his prickly half-numb legs buckled for a moment. “This thing’s a crock of shit. It’s stupid.” He swiped at the journal, lost his balance and missed by at least a foot.

  “It’ll take you some time to recover,” Bill said reassuringly. “You were reading for a long time. Just stick around. You’ll feel better. We’ll talk. Okay?”

  “Whatever.” The walls were closing in around him, suffocating him. He felt like he was going to burst out of his skin if he didn’t get out of the room. He took a few tentative steps toward the door. His body seemed thick, wooden.

  “Felix, don’t leave.” Bill sounded anxious now. “You’re in no condition to be on your own. You could hurt yourself.”

  “I don’t care,” he said, half aware that he was badly slurring the words. “I have a game tomorrow. A football game. Maybe we’ll be in the Rain Cup. Win. We’ve gotta win.”