Whenever Gunn gets enthusiastic about some theory, his eyes seem to brighten with pleasure. He’s one of those people who are just naturally excited by new ideas, and right now his face is shining like a light.
“Gunn?” I ask before he can get side-tracked. “Those times when you saw me shining before.” I bite my lip, unsure how to put it. “Was I… still me? Or was I someone else?”
He pauses just a fraction too long. “You can’t be someone else, Jess. By definition, the person you are at any time will be you.”
“I don’t know if it’s that simple.”
His eyes on mine are like scorching blue flames. “Tell me what you remember.”
I close my eyes so I can concentrate. “At first I blacked out for a while. Except, I’m pretty sure I didn’t really black out. And then suddenly I was back again, but I felt distant and… different. The longer I stayed in that state, the worse it got. At first it was amazing—I suddenly knew all these secrets, as if some veil had been ripped from my face and I could finally see the hidden truth about people and things. But after a while I began to feel more and more removed from everyone, and my thoughts got stranger and stranger.”
When I open my eyes again, I notice that my hands are nervously crumpling the sheets. “It was more than strange, to be honest. It was as if I’d become… someone else. Everything seemed different. Everything. I was myself and yet I wasn’t. I spoke differently and I thought differently, and I knew things. Worse, there were other things I didn’t know—obvious, personal things, like that I’d set fire to the desert.” I grip the sheets a bit tighter. “Is that what Zig meant when he said I’m not really a girl? Is there, like… something else living in me?”
He’s quiet for so long that I look up at him again. “Gunn?”
Now he’s the one with his eyes closed, his fingers lightly tapping against his forehead. “Don’t worry: I’m just trying to figure out how to have this discussion without triggering the Enthrallment spell you’re under.”
“Oh, yes. That. Sorry.”
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.” He opens his eyes. “Okay. Let’s try this. How much do you know about monarch butterflies?”
“Huh?”
“Did you know that monarch butterflies live and breed through three generations each spring before taking a 2500-mile journey from Canada to Mexico? And, once they reach their destination, that they live in semi-hibernation in the exact same spots their ancestors did?”
I give him a look. “Please don’t tell me this is some kind of analogy.”
“I guess it is. Why?”
His beautiful face is so earnest I can’t do anything but sigh. “Never mind. Continue. Monarch butterflies.”
“What’s so fascinating about these butterflies is that each generation knows exactly where to go even though they’ve never made the journey before. To the point of landing in the exact same tree.” He leans back, pleased, as if he’s just made some very important, perfectly relevant point. “Think about it. How is that even possible?”
“I guess their parents –” I suddenly realize I have no idea whether butterflies have parents, “—or whatever—teach them the way? Like geese?”
“That’s just it. They can’t! Remember, the original journey would’ve been taken four generations ago. So the route isn’t something they can learn from a previous generation. It’s impossible.”
“So how do they do it?”
“That’s the million-dollar question.” The good smile again. “Certainly the most interesting theory is that there must be some kind of ‘genetic memory’ coded into their DNA, which means it doesn’t have to be experienced or taught. In other words, the butterflies know where to go because the common experience of their species has become assimilated into their genetic code, carried on through the genome from generation to generation.”
I give him a puzzled look, but I don’t ask any questions. When he gets like this, it’s usually best to just let him speak.
“A similar phenomenon was found in several studies done on mice, not too long ago, when it was proved that genetic imprints from traumatic experiences carry through at least two generations. For example, laboratory mice would fear a certain smell that their grandparents were exposed to, but which neither they nor their parents ever encountered before.”
“Okay?”
“Don’t you see? This implies, once again, that memories are not necessarily built up during a lifetime but can also be passed on biologically, through chemical changes to DNA.”
I frown. “I’m not a mouse, Gunn. Or a butterfly.”
“Of course not! But this theory—that a certain kind of ‘genetic memory’ is possible within a species—applies to humans as well. We know, for example, that certain people have inherent knowledge about fields of learning they’ve never encountered before. Have you ever heard the term ‘savants’?”
I shake my head.
“Basically they’re people who simply know things; things they’ve never been taught. How to compute prime numbers, for example, or how to compose music, or what the weather was like every day for the past twenty years.”
“That’s pretty weird, I guess?”
“It’s amazing!” He beams at me. “The idea of genetic memory is controversial, but it’s been with us for a very long time. In the early twentieth century, for example, a famous psychologist named Carl Jung used the broader term ‘collective unconscious’ to explain how certain views, wisdoms, and stereotypes are passed on from generation to generation through structures of the unconscious mind shared among our species. And while this idea has often been rejected since, recent studies in genetics have tended to prove rather than disprove the theory.”
I lean my head back against the wall, trying to make sense of what he just told me. But it simply doesn’t want to come together: his point keeps eluding me, slipping away from my consciousness to disappear in a warm and soupy fog clouding my mind.
“I honestly don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.”
“No?” He looks surprised.
“It’s like…” I realize I can’t even remember what our discussion was about. “Um. What were we talking about again?”
“You can’t remember anything?”
“Not really.”
He swears. “It’s that spell you’re under.”
I touch my head carefully. “Are you sure? Because it doesn’t feel like the other times. My head isn’t hurting, and I could hear what you were saying, earlier. I followed every word until a certain point when it just…” I wave my hands: fingers running through water.
He nods slowly. “That makes sense. At first, you could hear what I said because it didn’t relate directly to you. But later, when you wanted to apply this knowledge to your situation, your conscious mind refused to make connections which might undermine the illusion you’re being blinded by.”
“So what do I do now?”
He leans forward. “You fight it.”
“Can I do that?”
“Yes. You can. You’re not trying to recall the memory they’ve erased; you’re simply trying to understand a certain analogy, as far as it relates to your magic. I have no doubt you’re strong enough to do that, at least.”
“Okay,” I say uncertainly. “What do you want me to do?”
“First, try to remember what we just talked about. Concentrate.”
I close my eyes, try to fight through the haze. The fog is soothing and thick and reassuring, but it’s not a part of me. I can see that now. It’s a wall of illusion constructed around my mind, a prison of a kind. I ignore its gentle comfort and focus on finding the part of my consciousness that’s mine.
“Butterflies,” I say after a while. “Mice. Savants.”
“Good.”
I push further, groping for understanding. But the closer I come to any insight, the thicker the fog around my mind becomes until it’s a tight band, a steel trap. I fight against it, pushing. Pushing.
&n
bsp; “Genetic memory,” I say. “Knowledge locked inside biology.”
“Good!”
By now I’m concentrating so hard my hands are gripping the sheets again. And then suddenly, a gap through the fog. There is no need to push any further—I can simply slip in, like a thief through a window.
“Oh!” I cry. “I get it! You’re saying there’s this chemical thing in my blood, a change to my DNA or whatever, that allows me to have memories and knowledge about things I never experienced.”
His mouth quirks into a smile. “Yes. That’s exactly right. You can think of it as a very ancient presence in your blood, carried from generation to generation inside the genome.”
When I finally begin to see where he’s going with this, I find the idea deeply disturbing. “So this ‘ancient presence’ takes over from the real me whenever I light up with the shine? And that’s how I do things that I don’t know how to do, and why I have thoughts and feelings that aren’t mine?”
He grabs my hand in excitement. “But they are your thoughts and feelings. Don’t you see? It’s not some outside force you need to be afraid of—it’s a part of you.”
“No!” I take my hand back. I can’t think when he touches me, and this is important. “That’s not true. I am me.” I hit an open palm against my chest. “This. Me.”
“Okay. Think about it this way.” He runs both hands through his hair. “Did you choose your eye color? Or your skin? The thickness of your hair or the shape of your toes?”
I scowl at him.
“No. You didn’t. You got all that from your ancestors, passed on from generation to generation through your DNA, over untold centuries.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not talking about my body. It’s normal to look like your parents. I’m talking about my personality. About me.”
“Do you really think your personality is something you built from scratch, something you choose? Isn’t it possible that many of the personality traits you view as uniquely yours were also passed on to you from your ancestors, in the same way as your hair or eye color?”
“We did the ‘nature versus nurture’ debate at school, Gunn. It’s not the same.”
“Explain to me why it’s different.”
“Because I’m talking about something else inside of me. Something that’s not me. Something that might be…”
“Might be what?”
“Evil.”
He narrows his eyes. “Why do you say that? Did it feel evil to you?”
“How would I know?” I hear the pitch of my voice rising. “Do evil people know they’re evil? What if I end up wanting to eat the flesh of the weak, or devour the hearts of the righteous?”
“Ah.” He smiles. “Let me guess. Zig’s been talking to you.”
I don’t smile back.
“The Old Words are a lot of superstitious nonsense, and most of it is shamelessly plagiarized. But even if it wasn’t, why on earth would you think it applies to you? You know what evil is, Jess. Think about it: while you were shining, did you feel hateful or destructive or malicious in any way?”
I shake my head. “No. I didn’t feel any of those things. But I did feel kind of… superior. Like I was better than everyone around me.”
“Well, that’s not so bad, is it? Remember, the presence in your blood isn’t only immensely powerful, it’s also very old. Ancient. Surely you don’t think it strange when someone a lot older and wiser than you demands some respect?”
I chew my lip. “Maybe. But that kind of attitude can make you arrogant and cruel.”
“Exactly.” He beams at me, as if I’ve just said something wonderful. “Which is why it’s such a good thing that the ordinary, everyday part of you is still in there too. You might learn a lot from the power inside your blood—but just imagine what it might learn from you!”
I give him a dubious look. “Is that even possible?”
“I think so, yes. The fact that you can remember so much of what happened is a good sign. It shows that you’re gaining more control. One day, you might even manage to merge the two sides of yourself into a comprehensive whole.”
“But I don’t want to!” I feel my throat thickening. “I don’t want to merge anything with anything. I don’t want this inside me.”
He puts his warm hand over mine. “There is no sense in trying to fight it, sweetheart. You are what you are, and that can’t be changed, no matter how many Enthrallment spells you’re under.”
*
My sisters sing to me, their voices low and humming with distress.
They tell me that I am in danger.
That nothing is as it seems.
They tell me that my power has grown too luminous, that it cannot be hidden any longer. It is shining like a beacon into the world: strong and rich and pure and free. Beautiful to behold, and impossible to hide.
The Others have seen the light of my beacon, they warn, their glittering eyes filled with terror and distress. They have realized the extent of my power, and they are coming for me.
I try to reach out to my sisters, to offer them comfort, but they coil away from me, alarmed and distraught.
The Others are coming, they warn. They are coming, and I must be ready!
There is no time to lose.
It has begun.
Chapter 16
Mostly referred to simply as the ‘Codex’, it has been dated to approximately 250-150 BCE, but it is now widely accepted that the information contained therein probably predates even mythical antiquity. (See Chapter 3 for exciting new evidence which suggests that the oldest existing document was directly transcribed from a set of tablets in the palaces of the Persian King of Kings (5th century BCE) and that the knowledge on those tablets, in turn, came from an earlier civilization of which no trace now remains.)
The manuscript itself has a long and interesting history. The surviving scroll was originally housed in the Great Library of Alexandria (circa 200 BCE). In the fires that spelled the end of that great center of learning, all the original, immeasurably ancient texts which might have pre-dated the Codex were lost, but by a spectacular stroke of luck (see Chapter 3) the Codex itself was spared and later relocated to the Imperial Library of Constantinople. By all accounts, it remained there until it was seized by the Venetians in the Fourth Crusade in 1204, whereafter it found its way to the House of Keepers in Rome, less than a century later. There it remained for over five hundred years until its mysterious disappearance in the mid-nineteenth century.
From A Brief History of The Order of Keepers by Lord Harry Charles Shawcross (1961)
For a little while, I allow Gunn to convince me that everything will be alright.
I spend the next three weeks honing my firemagic skills in an atmosphere of almost dreamlike peace and simplicity. In the continued absence of phones and shops and texts and news and school and social media, the days become strangely timeless, boiled down to a rich essence both simpler and more satisfying than anything I’ve known since childhood: Healthy food. Fresh air. Friendship. Long walks. Learning. A shared sense of purpose.
I spend most of my days in the study with Daniel’s mother, hiding from the heat outside, while she teaches me everything she knows about firemagic. Which isn’t a lot, unfortunately. One problem is that most discussions end up with me clutching my head and groaning, paralyzed by the Pendragon spell. The other problem is that firemagic isn’t supposed to exist, which means Sofia talks more about myths and legends and ancient religions than about actual firemagic. According to her, these stories often contain a kernel of truth about the powers of my kind, and she hopes that some incidental wisdom will light a spark inside me (or as Gunn would have it, “unlock the genetic memories stored within my DNA”). So, obviously a well-thought-out and not at all desperate plan.
At first Sofia tries to get me to read a bunch of books and scholarly articles, but there’s just so much of it, and it’s all so eye-wateringly dull,
that in the end she starts tutoring me herself. I try my best to listen carefully, which isn’t too difficult because she’s a good teacher: interesting and funny and to the point. But I don’t take notes. It’s not like there will be an exam at the end—her words will either spark something inside me or it won’t.
Sofia tells me that many ancient cultures viewed fire as one of the “five elements” of which all things are made. She explains that some religions saw fire as the original element, or as divine, or as representing the supreme god’s wisdom, while others saw it as destructive or even evil, a symbol of the wrath of God, of hell and suffering. She talks about mythological heroes and legendary horrors; she analyzes Christian scriptures and Hindu mythology and the Buddha’s Fire Sermon; she discusses the Kabbalah and Zoroastrianism and the ancient cultures of Greece, Babylonia, Egypt, and China. But no matter how many times she pauses dramatically, nothing resonates with me in a way that goes any deeper than mild interest or curiosity. It’s all just stories, in the end.
Legends and myths and beliefs that have nothing to do with me.
It is only when we begin to study the Codex, the ancient scroll read to us at the Pendragon mansion, that I start to feel as if we’re making any progress.
Sophia tells me that the Codex is the oldest known text dealing directly with true magic, and that it’s widely viewed as the founding document of the Order of Keepers. The original scroll was written in an ancient middle eastern language, but very few people have ever set eyes on it; modern versions are based on later Latin translations and interpretations can vary quite a bit.
“In essence, however, it sets out the powers of the different keeper clans and links each type of magic to a certain human aspect and specific emotional states.”
It’s late afternoon and I’m lying flat on my back on the cool tiles, eating popcorn, while Sofia sits at her desk, which is littered with open books and papers.
“What’s a human aspect?” I ask.
Fireborn (The Dark Dragon Chronicles Book 2) Page 16