“It’s not in the normal realm of experience,” agreed Lexi.
“Unless you consider your own paranormal talent. Some would argue your ability to see residual earth memories couldn’t possibly exist—because such things are beyond their experience. But you know it’s real and post-cognition seems quite normal from your perspective.”
“I know, Marge.” This was her friend, who hadn’t doubted when she learned of Lexi’s sensitivities. “I’m sure you’re trying to make a point and I’m being rude about it.” But she didn’t sit down.
“I want to tell you a story,” Marge said. “And I want you to reserve judgment until I’m finished. Will you promise?”
“No.”
“Relax. It’s a love story. You like those.”
“Not particularly.”
“You’ll want to hear this one, though. It’s one of my favorites.”
Of course it was. And it probably involved Robbie.
There was stubborn, and there was foolish. Lexi was without allies, in the middle of a wilderness, and the keys to the only vehicle in sight were not in her possession.
She crossed her arms and walked with jerky movements to rejoin the group around the table. It wasn’t until she sat down that Lexi realized her action for what it was: a defensive gesture that would not protect her once the secrets were revealed.
CHAPTER 6
At first no one spoke. There was only the vast landscape and the restless, whispering wind. The tang of the wine blunted scents of sage mixed with dust. Arsen’s campfire had gone out. There was nothing to look at but olive-drab terrain. Rugged, unforgiving.
Isolated.
Marge launched into her story.
“Did you know there are tribes living in the Amazon that no one has ever seen? Scientists know they’re there. We have photo-evidence from satellites, but they manage to live completely out of sight.”
Lexi noticed how Robbie was relaxed in his chair, studying the horizon while Arsen was staring at the weeds near his feet. They were both paying attention to every word.
“There are others living just as invisibly,” the woman continued. “Early cultures thought they were Gods. They thought they were immortal. They stumbled upon our little planet and found it to their liking. They thrived, began to interact with humans. But everything that lives can be killed. When a ruling member of this immortal society was murdered, the Calata—that’s what they call themselves—realized the need for self-protection. Since some in their rank were alchemists, they used their knowledge to create a class of warriors—perhaps using the Wandjina story as a template. They gave these half-human, half-immortal warriors the ability to change their forms. They could fight as either men or animals, and from what I understand, it was very efficient.”
“So, this isn’t the ‘Gods come down from Olympus’ version?”
“No,” the woman said quietly, “but it has everything else you’d expect from a myth—including the tragic ending.”
Lexi had been reaching for her glass of wine when Marge looked in Christan’s direction. Now she was looking back and Lexi set her wineglass down on the table, a little surprised she didn’t break the fragile stem.
“Our story picks up around 500 BC,” Marge said, and then explained that Etruscan culture was thriving throughout Italy when the murder occurred, although warriors were not actually created until a century later. The alchemy took that long because the magic was both dangerous and difficult, and there had been significant debate about the characteristics warriors should possess—rather like breeding horses, Lexi pointed out sarcastically—and Marge made a rude sound, looking at Lexi before she continued with the explanation.
The Calata had been interested in protection, which was why warriors were all male. But it didn’t take long to discover other uses. It sounded bizarre and yet Marge spoke with complete sincerity. Since warriors looked human, they could infiltrate into local populations, influence political thought. They could change the outcome of war and often did. By the time Rome was expanding throughout Europe and Africa, Marge concluded, “the warriors were fully involved.”
Lexi studied the purple shadows creeping up the canyon wall, her fingers absently tracing up and down the stem of her wine glass. The glass was back in her hand. She wasn’t sure when she had picked it up. “You said this story had a tragic ending.”
“And it does. After eight centuries of interaction, some warriors took human mates, and human characteristics became dominant. The warriors questioned authority, developed ethics, and were no longer blindly obedient. The Calata’s reaction was predictable. They voted to kill the human lovers.”
“Why?”
“The warriors had rebelled. War was imminent. Some believed the women were the key. Kill them and the Calata could reestablish power. You’d have to understand the immortal mind to understand the logic.”
“There is no logic to understand,” Lexi said quietly.
“No,” Marge agreed, lapsing into silence. “And then a solution was proposed. They called it the Agreement. The warriors would agree to the Calata’s authority and in exchange, their women would be safe. But not just safe. The warriors asked for something so extravagant it almost caused another war.”
A bird screamed in the distance. Marge sipped her wine. Lexi stared at the horizon before looking back in the woman’s direction.
“Warriors considered themselves immortal,” Marge continued. “It was a reasonable request to want their lovers to be immortal too. That was their demand for peace, Lexi. But since such magic was beyond the alchemists’ abilities, they had to find another way.” A long pause. “We’ve had conversations, haven’t we, about reincarnation?”
“At night, over a glass of wine when we were indulging in fantasy.”
“Over a third of the world’s population believes in reincarnation. Plato was the first proponent. His theory of anamnesis suggests that knowledge is not learned, it’s remembered from a past life.”
Lexi turned her head a few degrees to the left. “Let’s not debate Plato right now.”
“We’re not debating. We’re talking about alchemists who realized they could use reincarnation as a way to insure the warriors reunited with their lovers, lifetime after lifetime. When you think about it, you’ll see it was a perfect solution.”
“In a myth, Marge.”
The woman sighed, looked down at the tiny cube of cheese in her hand. Lexi closed her eyes and rubbed hard against the pain above her right eyebrow. Christan had shifted his stance, barely perceptible, but he was watching her and his expression wasn’t friendly. Why she was so attuned to him Lexi didn’t know, didn’t want to know. But there it was. She couldn’t turn the awareness off the way she turned off energies from the earth, and those tattoos were catching the light of the sun. She wasn’t attracted to tattoos and her fascination was bewildering. At some point, she’d noticed Arsen had some ink of his own. So did the man with Marge.
“This is why you’ve been dreaming,” Marge was saying quietly, and Lexi struggled to follow along. “What your night terrors are about, why they’re so upsetting. They are the walls in your subconscious breaking down so that the past lives can filter through.” Marge paused, and when she spoke again her voice was firm. “It’s not like you haven’t thought about it, Lexi. That we haven’t talked about this.”
A statement. No question in the words. Lexi took a deep breath and looked at the horizon because it was the closest she could come to something normal. She struggled for self-control, wanted to close her eyes but refused, because self-control would be lost without something visual to anchor her.
“You realize how insane this sounds.”