The Memory Painter

Off the gallery, two doors slid open to reveal a library. The room had leather walls and towering bookshelves filled with well-worn texts—a scholar’s room.

Finn Rigby sat in a big overstuffed chair next to an antique table lamp that cast a soft glow on the room. Bryan stared at him and recognized the Finn from his dreams—only this man was older, and the right side of his face, neck, and arm bore scars from severe burns. His hair was cut short now and it was more white than blond. But he was still Finn. Bryan noticed that he had on eyeglasses with dark-brown lenses and wondered if he still suffered from migraines.

Finn studied them with the same intensity. “Mandu,” he said.

Bryan stepped forward. “A lifetime you and Michael both remembered … two brothers from the Wardaman tribe in Australia’s Northern Territory. Neither of you knew the exact time frame, only that it happened well before the Europeans arrived in the sixteen hundreds.”

Finn seemed to have trouble forming his words. “How do you know that?”

Bryan stunned him even further by answering in Wardaman, an aboriginal dialect that was now almost extinct. “Because you were my younger brother, Bardo. It was the first recall you ever had.”

Bryan could sense that Linz was about to ask what language he was speaking, and he squeezed her hand in a silent signal to let him finish. “Bardo loved to play tricks on Mandu … always taking his spear and finding ways to torture his brother. Their time together was short. You drowned when you were a boy.”

To the Wardaman, death signals the twilight time, when the soul returns to its birthplace so it can be reborn. Remembering that life had given Bryan a deep connection to nature, to the Earth, and to the power of dreams. The Wardaman believe in a great tapestry of life and see their dreams as memories of Creation Time, when Ancestral Beings had walked the Earth. Mandu’s memories and the peace they brought Bryan had come at a time when he had needed them most. It was the reason he had finally felt able to come home to Boston and make peace with his childhood.

Finn remained perfectly still, except for two fingers that performed a staccato tap against the table.

Bryan knew this meant his old friend was deep in thought, and he switched back to English. “I remembered Mandu’s life three years ago. Overnight, I knew how to live off the land. I traveled to remote regions of the world, slept under the stars, hunted my own food, and made a fire by rubbing two sticks together—an ancient art long forgotten. It was a year before I felt the urge to see a modern city again.” He had only returned to civilization at Therese’s urging. When he had called her from some remote outpost near La Rinconada, Peru, to see how she was doing, it seemed that his art had become famous the year that he had been off the grid, and offers were coming in from gallery owners to present his work in Berlin, S?o Paulo, and New York in solo exhibits. He would never have been able to make that leap of faith without Mandu’s wisdom.

Bryan waited, giving Finn time to process everything.

Finn looked to Linz and then back to Bryan and whispered, “My God, it is you. Both of you. How?”

Bryan heard Linz’s breath catch at the recognition in Finn’s voice.

Finn sat forward. “I thought I’d never see you again. How long have you been remembering?” He motioned for them to sit.

Bryan led Linz to the couch. She was looking a little dazed. He answered for them. “Since we were children. She’s remembered Juliana but no one else. I can’t seem to stop mine.”

Finn absently touched the scar on his cheek. “Extraordinary. Renovo really has worked beyond our wildest dreams.”

Linz sat down. “Would someone please tell me exactly what you all did?”

Finn looked to Bryan, a bit of a challenge in his eyes. “Would you like to do the honors?”

Bryan could tell Finn still wasn’t sure if this was a hoax. He nodded in acceptance and turned to Linz. “The journey started in 1974, the first year Harvard Medical School partnered with the Medical Scientist Training Program. It was a national program for both MD and PhD students and was created to support the next generation of physician-scientists in biomedical research. We were all accepted. Diana and Finn already knew each other from when they were undergrads. The fellowship supported our individual research for six years.” Bryan addressed Finn, “Your research focused on understanding how to limit the release of glutamate, a vital chemical in the brain that, if produced in excessive amounts, kills cells.” His gaze returned to Linz. “Diana’s work concentrated on developing a way for the brain to produce more acetylcholine—”

“A chemical believed to be essential to thinking and memory formation.” Linz finished his sentence, growing impatient. “And Michael’s research?” she asked with a frown, as if trying to piece it all together.