The Academy of Mortal Mysteries – by Pamela DuMond
THE ACADEMY OF MORTAL MYSTERIES
BY PAMELA DUMOND
Mary Palmar’s House, Illinois
I blinked my eyes open as I came to, seated at the kitchen table in Mary Palmar’s historical house.
A woman knelt next to me, pressing cold compresses on the inside of my wrists. “Emily,” she said. “Can you hear me? Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I said, knowing I had probably just woken up after a time travel. “I’m fine.”
“Good,” she said. “You were staring off into space, this book opened in front of you. I didn’t know if you were daydreaming, involved in a story, or having another episode.”
I glanced down. The Messenger’s handbook lay in front of me on a simple wooden table covered in a beautiful white linen tablecloth. I breathed a sigh of relief because I knew where I’d traveled: Mary Palmar’s house north of Chicago.
Mary was part of the Underground Railroad, an organized secret group that sheltered people escaping slavery.
They hid travelers, fed them, and when the time was right, escorted them through the darkest of nights to ships nestled in harbors on Lake Michigan that would take them to “The Promised Land,” otherwise known as Canada.
Mary Palmar had been kind to me when I time traveled here the first time and slipped into the body of her assistant, who suffered from petit mal seizures.
Messengers always slid quietly into the bodies of those who were fragile, not in control of their faculties.
Near death, in a coma, burning with fever, or on drugs—these were the moments when one's body and mind lacked the strength to maintain boundaries.
These persons’ weaknesses were our gain. Lucky for them, we didn't wish them harm. Older texts called Messengers “Walk-Ins”—entities temporarily inhabiting another’s physical form to fulfill a specific purpose.
Messengers were pulled from their own bodies to spin through time's fabric because we were drawn to deliver a message to a person that could change one life or many.
Messengers did not travel with a portal or a machine; it was in our bloodline, part of our lineage.
The amount of time we left our bodies could appear as brief as a moment of inattention, or even the blink of an eye.
After delivering our message, we returned to our own time and place, leaving the body we inhabited.
Despite my disorientation at landing in Emily’s body, I was happy to see Mary again.
She reminded me of someone I knew a long time ago but couldn’t quite identify.
I glanced down at the table and spotted the book my mother had created for me before her death.
I didn’t even know it existed until my father gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday in modern-day Chicago.
How did it get here?
“Thank you, Mrs. Palmar,” I said. “I must have been reading and got lost in the story.”
She stood and smiled at me. “Finish the story.” She wandered off toward the kitchen.
I turned the handbook’s pages. There was the photograph of me in the ballet tutu. Wait—this was my ballet tutu when I was six years old and lived in Chicago. Wild that the photo was here in this book, over a hundred years before I lived in modern times.
I flipped past the tea leaf reading, the ancestry chart, and discovered a letter written in cursive. The words pulled me to them, just as they had in Siarah's cave, but this was longer, a continuation of what I'd read before.
Dear Messenger,
I know you’ve gone through hell to get here.
You’ve traversed oceans and crossed thousands of miles.
You’ve struggled through wars and hardship, been beaten and broken by wounds that sliced you to the core.
You’ve also worn the finest gowns and enjoyed the richest foods and drinks, all the while knowing that mortal enemies sat at the same table, just a few chairs from yours.
And yet, if you’re reading this letter, Messenger, you’re still alive.
You survived assassination attempts by Hunters who sought to kill you, as well as being distracted by your one true love who tempted you to forget and abandon your true task.
But have you figured out what your real task is yet, Messenger?
I think if you are here, in this house, reading this letter, that you are very close to figuring out your current message.
But allow me to digress. From the beginning, you believed that becoming a Messenger was about delivering information that could change or even save a life.
Let’s review what you’ve accomplished so far.
You never assassinated Hitler or saved Tsar Nicholas and Tsarina Alexandra. You didn’t warn Marie Antoinette that she was going to lose her pretty head, nor did you end racism, or poverty, or intolerance. But your job as a time traveler was never about the Butterfly Effect.
Here’s what you accomplished: you helped many people in small and larger ways.
The Native American leader King Philip took your advice to heart and released the pastor’s wife, Patience Donaldson, from captivity and returned her to her loving family.
You tried to save a princess and convinced a Crown Prince to cease bloodshed with his father.
You washed dishes, set the table, and stood up for the underdog. You were kind.
The Maker created humans, Hunters, Messengers, and Healers to live amongst each other.
The Maker knew that while there would always be fights and disagreements, there was still a balance to keep, an order to be preserved.
It was never Her intent for the divisions to polarize. Sadly, we accomplished that on our own.
Our original pathways disintegrated. Hunters veered toward destruction, Messengers started believing they were superior to the Hunters, and everyone else for that matter.
The Healers went along with everything and everybody in order to stay neutral and not take sides.
They reasoned that their task was to repair the damage after any accident or painful event.
The humans followed our lead as they, too, chose violence, elitism, separatism, and apathy.
So, Madeline, an outlawed act of love may have brought you into this world, but you arrived at the perfect time.
We needed someone innocent who could become strong.
Someone opinionated who could learn humility.
Someone who possessed sufficient humor to survive vicious times and still find moments of laughter.
These kinds of people can knit our tribes back together and return a working harmony to our tiny pocket of creation in this vast galaxy of life.
Therefore, Madeline, you were never simply a Messenger, nor a Hunter.
You were meant to be a Seeker. You are the result of so much effort on so many parts.
You embody our hopes and dreams. If we are even half right and luck, the fates, and the gods smile upon us, it is the Anvesaka children, the Seekers, who can best knit the world together.
There’s only one piece of the puzzle that you’re still missing to make this evolution.
I hope you don’t find it odd that I share this with you via an old-fashioned handwritten letter. Emails can be hacked, dreams invaded. And I can’t send a Messenger to you; our numbers are dwindling.
You’re at the starting gate, Madeline. We’re smashing down the walls. We’re building a new world and filling it with second chances. Join us. Become a leader. Whatever you choose, know that I love you. I always have, and I always will.
Your mother,
Rebecca Blackford
My mother?
My head swiveled, looking for her. “Mary!” I hollered as I pushed myself out of the chair and stumbled forward, my mind still in a fog.
She wasn’t in the kitchen. I reached the door and threw it open, revealing a warm summer day.
Green pastures rolled out in front of me, leading to the shores of Lake Michigan lapping a narrow sand beach not that far away. “Mary?”
MADELINE BLACKFORD: CHICAGO – PRESENT DAY
“No one saves us but ourselves. No one can and no one may. We ourselves must walk the path.” The Buddha.
I am officially eighteen years old, although I feel twice that.
I live with my dad, stepmom Sophie, and my half sister, Jane, in a simple neighborhood on the South Side of Chicago.
I help around the house, work out at the local park, and meet up with my time traveling handlers once a week.
My handlers train me for future missions, even though none of us know where in time I will be pulled next.
Ryan, late twenties, is the tough guy. He's in charge of trying to make me tough. Ha-ha. Ryan has his work cut out for him. A while back, he and I sparred at Joe's gym as he attempted to teach me a few more self-defense maneuvers.
“When are you the most vulnerable in a new time travel?” He lunged at me.
“When I first arrive.” I twisted away from him. "I always feel disoriented.”
“Because you're landing in someone else's body.” Ryan circled me on the boxing mat like I was prey. “Someone living in that time. They can be injured, daydreaming, or doing drugs. They're in a weakened state.”
I frowned. “Ew. That sounds so zombie-esque.” I aimed a roundhouse kick at his stomach.
He dodged it and laughed. “You're far from being a zombie.”
I paused, wiped the sweat from my brow, and faux curtseyed. “Thanks for noticing.”
Penelope Vanderveen, seventies, instructed me in etiquette and easy ways to make poisons from common baking ingredients.
“Either in the guise of a servant or nobility, you will time travel to a royal court and be expected to know the ins and outs of fine dining protocol.” She placed a stack of china and silverware in front of me. “Set the table.”
I arranged the plates and flatware, but the spoon placement proved more challenging. “I traveled to King Pedro’s court in Portugal in 1355,” I said. “They didn’t worry about soup spoons.”