One Great Year (12 page)

“I wish you peace, my friend. You have chosen a very difficult path,” Grey Elder said at last, and Marcus knew that it was true.

There were grueling days and months of work at Stone-at-Center—rebuilding wells, clearing debris, and tending to the bodies. Once the most pressing obligations were dispelled, Marcus became a traveler and spent days, weeks, and then years hunting for Theron. As he searched, he helped to reconstruct devastated villages in his path, but always he moved on at the first opportunity, determined to find his lost love.

Marcus never stayed in one place for long. He never failed to ask anyone he met if they had seen Theron. Had he known she was a continent away, across the great ocean in Khem (later called Egypt) with Helghul and Red Elder, he would surely have commandeered a boat.

His eyes grew poor and his knees gave him pain, and there were no proper healers to set him right, but still he walked and searched, sure that he would recognize her even in old age.

Marcus never found her. He always wondered if he might have just missed her—had she taken a left turn on a mountain pass when he had turned right? Had he walked past a hut just as she lay down to rest? He never knew. Marcus found no peace and saw her around every corner, in every sinewy female figure and russet mop of hair. He heard her in every twinkling laugh. He would wake in the night, the feel of her hand in his, the smell of her skin, the image of her next to the blue cenote waters so clear and vivid in his mind, and then the lucid dreams would dissipate, like smoke to the heavens. He could only be with her in his dreams.

Marcus knew that when he died he would be reborn into another shell, a new body, another lifetime. He prayed that in his next life, he would meet his love again and recognize her by her distinct karmic code: her glowing aura.

Marcus died many years later at the age of ninety-one, young for an Atitalan. But that world was gone, and the days of great longevity were gone with it. Marcus was remembered and celebrated by the people he had served, who had grown to care for him, in a small village in the northern hemisphere. He had never coupled with another. He had traveled north from Stone-at-Center over two continents to find Theron, and he had died alone when his weak body would allow him to search no more.

Atitala was long gone, cracked from its seat of strength by violent earthquakes, floods, and fires. The tropical paradise had been submerged and now rested miles under the sea. The Earth, her terrain, and her people had been remade, and no continent had gone untouched.

The Emissaries had now reincarnated countless times. The wisdom and technological advancement of the Golden Age was lost and forgotten, as generations died and were reborn without memory and as consciousness further descended. The evidence of former glory was buried and drowned. Many of the people had been reduced to living in caves, but they had made advancements over thousands of years and were rebuilding more sophisticated civilizations.

Marcus had guided them as best he could, but he alone remembered the way it had been in Atitala. Though he shared his knowledge, without tools, proof, or understanding it was useless. It was like handing an infant a hammer. Even he did not now have the abilities he had once mastered. There was no telepathy, and he could not conjure a Unity Grid—the greater consciousness did not allow it. Only over time could people rebuild and ascend to the level of understanding and former glory they had once known.

In each lifetime Marcus's memories came back in pieces and, with them, feelings of loss. Childhood was a gift, free of past-life memory, but his adolescent years were complicated and painful. By adulthood he regained vague memories, not only of Atitala, but of every lifetime since. He recalled people, places, and grief, and he was haunted by the coming and going of Theron in his lives.

Marcus read the karmic codes of those around him and easily recognized the Emissaries, who radiated in broad purple and violet bands regardless of their current bodies. They never knew him, not as Marcus or a fellow Emissary, but they were drawn to him nonetheless.

In some lives, his memories—his true Marcus-brain—came back to him in tiny threads. As his consciousness grew, the tendrils wove a clear tapestry of who he was and all of the people he had been. However, in other incarnations, the memories would flood back like waves during times of stress, and the confusion and gravity of it all would make him question his own sanity.

Lifetime after lifetime Marcus endured death: losing the people he had come to love, remembering and missing them over and over again. Some he would see in future lives, a soul group with whom he had a significant connection, but he missed no one as he missed Theron. There were lifetimes in which he failed to find her, where their destinies did not converge or they perhaps missed one other by hours, minutes, or seconds.

When they did come together in a lifetime, it seemed to Marcus that they were like actors in the theater. They were playing different roles, but always there was something strong and undeniable that pulled them together. Though she never knew him, never knew her true self, she was always Theron deep down. He knew her colors—her karmic code, which was as distinct as DNA—and seeing and feeling her filled him to his core. She felt him too, and when they were apart neither was whole, though only he was tortured by it.

Try as he would, Marcus was at the mercy of fate. Who and when he would be born was beyond his control. He could only be, and seek to fulfill his role and learn his lessons in each lifetime. As Marcus continued as an Emissary, the loneliness and futility that he often felt wore him down. Still, Marcus's innate goodness and light, coupled with his memories of Theron, helped him to persevere. He had no other option. He sought Theron's energy, lifetime after lifetime, only to discover the many forms their love would take and how many more ways he would learn to love.

823 BC, Stone-at-Center

Stone-at-Center was a most sacred site, a spiritual hub shrouded in ancient lore. Its energy was palpable, and the faithful from lands near and far made pilgrimages to its walls, its soil, and to pray in its temples. It was rumored that a visit there could cure the ill, soothe those in pain, and bring them closer to their gods. Because of its religious significance and central location, the city was a key market and trading route. The area boasted an ancient pyramid and a monumental interlocking wall of precisely cut and laid stones, thought to have always been there. Curiously there were many oceanic fossils unearthed, though the sea was many miles away. A stone boat, an example left to tell a story to future generations, lay mostly unnoticed. A greater power seemed to protect the sacred ground and preserve its ancient heritage.

The prosperity and importance of the community made it a target of ambitious neighbors. Many times the great walled city had been attacked, and many times it had been successfully defended. It was built on miles of lush green plains. Traders and pilgrims approached from all sides, using the well-traveled, ancient roads to guide them. From the walls of the city visitors were easily observed, and well-trained sentries thwarted invading armies.

For a thousand years a noble family, believed by the populace to be chosen by the gods, ruled the sacred land, until one particularly cruel and cunning invader laid siege and fouled the succession.

Marcus looked out on the vista as a dark procession neared. This was another lifetime, and many had passed. He had been many people and had lived many places since the first time he and the other Emissaries had landed in Stone-at-Center. He had been born and died as male and female and understood that the shell housing his soul was irrelevant. The spirit was eternal.

Marcus was accustomed to his current woman's body. Looking down and seeing his hands so thin and delicate, so much like Theron's hands, they sparked him to remember.

His life as Sartaña, the high priestess of Stone-at-Center, had been rewarding. He was a spiritual leader and healer, and though he had not met Theron in this incarnation, he had experienced the miracle of carrying and birthing a child. He felt the love and concern of a mother for her offspring and was grateful for it.

Sartaña did not remember everything. Whether it was because Marcus had only sipped the remnants of a discarded memory potion, or because that was the nature of the elixir, she did not know. Her past lives were like hazy dream recollections, bits and pieces of pictures torn up and tossed to the wind, which she painstakingly tried to reassemble with the unpredictable assistance of her Marcus-brain.

The land she looked upon had changed considerably. The ocean that had, centuries before, carried Marcus to these same shores had subsided and was now miles away. The lush huarango treeline had receded as the population and consumption had increased, and the soil had become dry and dusty.

Sartaña prepared herself, waiting in dread, knowing that her warriors had been defeated. She watched from the higher ground of the palace as the people rushed between dwellings. The elderly left their outdoor perches for the safety of their huts. Fires were left to burn out. The women rushed about urging their children and animals indoors, concealed from the conquering army. There were no middle-aged men; only the very old and young remained. Everyone else had been called to the city's defense.

Word had come ten minutes earlier, by way of a frantic messenger, that the resistance had been crushed and a vicious conqueror was on his way. Sartaña could see the progression approaching from her window. She ignored her muddled Marcus-brain to concentrate on the task ahead. She must prepare her people, especially her son Amaru, for whatever would come.

Sartaña turned from her chamber window. She was dressed in traditional regal robes of finely woven cloth dyed deep pink. The hem of her long cape told the story of her people and had been stitched intricately with gold thread, symbols, and designs. Servants helped place a fine gold and feather headdress on her dark hair, which by its very weight and nature made her appear majestic and proud.

As she reached the door, her son was brought to her. Amaru was ten years old and small for his age. His dark eyes telegraphed his fear as he ran to his mother's waiting embrace. She bent to greet to him, eye to eye, skillfully keeping her heavy headdress in balance.

“My son, I know you have heard the news,” she said, embracing him tightly. She felt his fear and confusion and drank in the smell of the dust in his hair and the fresh air on his skin.

“No one will tell me anything!” he complained. “What's happened? Is it Father?” Amaru asked anxiously. He absentmindedly traced the flower-shaped scar that was branded into Sartaña's upper arm, as he had often done as a toddler. Sartaña remembered how he used to run his tiny fingers over the raised white skin and ask her repeatedly if it hurt. He loved the story of her coming of age ceremony, when she had been honored with the symbol of the seed of life, which resembled a flower with six petals surrounded by a circle.

“I've had no word, but it cannot be good,” she said, faltering as her son responded to the news, stifling his tearful outburst.

“Is he dead?”

“I fear it must be so, we are certainly conquered,” Sartaña said seriously. “I need you to be strong. I must welcome our new leader and pray that there is no more bloodshed.” The priestess lifted her son's tear-streaked face to her own, longing to ease the alarm and sorrow in his dark eyes. She used the edge of her precious robe and wiped his cheeks and nose dry.

“What will happen to us now?” the boy asked, conscious of behaving bravely and honorably.

“Amaru, this is a dangerous time. If we are to survive, we must submit to our conquerors. The citizens must accept this new order.” Her face was lined with concern and desperation. She had no time to feel anguish for her loss. Her only concern was to save her son and protect her people.

“Will they kill us?” he asked intelligently, his stomach turning and contracting involuntarily.

“I do not know. We must be brave and cautious if we wish to survive. Our adversary must not see you as a threat. It is not safe to leave now, all the gates are breached, but I am going to send you away. You will live in a nearby village with the family of my servant, Malaya. You must not return here. You must not tell anyone who you are. They will protect you and say you are the son of a farmer, an orphan. She will take you now and hide you in the city until it is safe to leave. You understand?” Sartaña demanded, holding his shoulders and searching his face for comprehension.

Amaru understood completely. His father, the high priest and leader of these vast lands, had schooled him since the age of five. He had been taught the ways of his people—farming, politics, spirituality, and defense. Amaru knew that as an heir to the throne he would be eliminated by the conquering leader.

Sartaña's servant, Malaya, entered and gave the boy a bundle of worn clothing and sandals more suited to a peasant child. She handed the high priestess a small bowl. Sartaña dipped her fingers into the bowl and, while saying a prayer aloud, used the soil within to camouflage the cheeks and arms of her son. It served as both a blessing and a disguise. “You must change and go now, with Malaya. I will see you again someday. Do not seek me out. I will come for you. I will send word when I can. Promise me, Amaru. Try to blend in. Do not bring trouble down upon these good people who help us.”

“I promise, but when will I see you? How long?” he asked, his youth and vulnerability plain. Amaru realized that he was leaving all that he knew and that he might never see his mother again. He began to cry, and fresh tears streaked the dirt and grime meant to help him appear more common.

“I don't know. To know that you are safe is all I ask. Now go and do not be seen! We can no longer be sure who to trust,” she warned Malaya as well as her son. “You must hurry, time is short. Know that I love you and carry you with me always,” she said, touching her hand to her heart. Sartaña hid her own misery so that she would not upset him further. Amaru's tears fell in dark water stains onto her dress, despite his wish to be brave and suppress them.