The Academy of Mortal Mysteries – by Pamela DuMond #3
Ten years later, when I turned sixteen, my own magical travels began.
I discovered I wasn’t just put on this earth to live a boring life at Preston Academy.
Out with my friends, I waited on the “L” platform to head out to a random party and landed in the middle of a gang dispute.
I was shoved from the “L” platform, fell in front of an approaching train, and lost consciousness.
I came to in the year 1675 in Rhode Island, bruised and bloody on the ground, the only survivor of a brutal massacre in a colonial outpost.
And that was the first time I saw him.
RHODE ISLAND – 1675
He looked about my age, with strong cheekbones and shiny black hair that swept onto his shoulders. Wearing a tanned animal-hide shirt and loose pants, he stood tall and muscular—stunning, and very much alive.
He and another lean young man skirted the remains of the torched cabin and headed toward the forest. They carried bows and arrows. One clutched a knife.
The black-haired one with the strong cheekbones scanned the scene.
His gaze was intense, especially when it landed on me.
His hazel eyes regarded me with coldness.
I didn't know why. He looked dangerous, but not like a killer.
There was something different about him I couldn't explain.
He nodded at me—an acknowledgment and perhaps dismissal.
Then he turned and followed the other man into the forest.
Elizabeth, a well-intentioned young pregnant woman, and her oddball crew of colonial helpers rescued me from that bloodbath. Initially, I thought I was in the middle of a bad dream but soon learned I had time traveled, landing in the body of Elizabeth's snotty cousin, Abigail, who survived.
I also discovered I'd arrived during a war between King Philip of the Wampanoag tribe and the colonists.
I survived both the physical dangers and the judgment I faced for spending time with a young man who was half Wampanoag—something a proper colonial girl wasn't supposed to do.
Somewhere between the chaos and running for our lives, Samuel and I fell for each other for the first time in his many lifetimes.
Samuel was not a Messenger. He was a Healer, a person who reincarnated in different eras, always drawn to protect others. His was a life of service.
When I returned from King Philip's War, I woke in a hospital with my family at my bedside.
I'd been unconscious since falling onto the tracks, and they weren't sure I would pull through.
But I did. About a month following the accident, my leg in a cast, I was back on the "L" platform waiting for a train when I spotted Samuel in present-day Chicago.
My friends helped me track him down, but he had no recollection of me.
Soon after, I traveled to the Kingdom of Portugal in 1355 and met him again. He didn't recognize me during that time either. He never remembered me in any era I landed in. And yet, no matter the year, the danger, or the drama, I always knew him, and we always fell in love.
And then there were my Messenger mentors.
Ryan approached me the same night I spotted Samuel in Chicago.
He sparred with a Hunter on the “L” platform until the man ran off.
Ryan knew I was a Messenger and offered to mentor me.
But I didn’t want to embrace this time traveling thing.
This wild adventure would be a fluke in my otherwise mundane life.
I was determined not to follow in my mother’s footsteps.
But Ryan dangled the carrot: the more I traveled, the more chances I’d bump into Samuel. Each encounter might imprint on his consciousness, allowing his newer incarnations to remember me.
And so, I agreed to Ryan’s request, and more adventures through time ensued.
When I was seventeen years old, I longed for Samuel to remember me.
Prayed every night that he’d recall meeting me in another lifetime.
Then I could tell present- day Samuel about his Wampanoag incarnation who gave me a necklace in 1675, and Portuguese Samuel who asked for a message in the Roman ruins in 1355.
I could tell him he’d always be a Healer—a soul drawn to helping others.
I almost lost Samuel in the present for good because of a terrible decision I'd made when I traveled to 1961 and needed to undo what I'd done, make things right, but I didn't know how.
I traveled to the ends of the earth—first to the Underground Railroad in 1859 Illinois, to a safe house used by enslaved people escaping to freedom in the abolitionist North.
I journeyed to the Jordanian desert outside Petra in the second century BC.
Every place I traveled, I spoke to the Ancients—the oldest, wisest, most knowing Hunters and Messengers.
They advised, guided, mentored. They told me no matter how dangerous it might be, I needed to return to the era I'd messed up.
Had to return to deliver the message that I knew I was supposed to deliver, but didn't, because I wanted the recipient's life to be different.
I wanted what I thought was best for him.
Not what that little voice inside me knew was the right message to deliver.
And so, I did. I returned to that moment and delivered a different message to the person whose life I had altered—I gave him the truth, and with it, free will.
Because everyone in this life deserves free will—yes?
It wasn't what I wanted to do. It wasn't what I envisioned for him, but by granting him free will, I gave him freedom. Who doesn't deserve freedom?
Oh yes, the Ancestors were wise. This minor act gave me a brief window to undo the harm, and so I used what little grace the gods had seen fit to give me to roll back time and save Samuel from a terrible fate. When I did, Samuel finally remembered me from the past.
Now, here we were, negotiating a whole new life, careening toward a whole new fate. May the gods save us all.
CHICAGO – PRESENT DAY
The Harper Memorial Library at the University of Chicago featured stone walls and a massive chandelier suspended from vaulted ceilings.
Plaid-striped industrial carpet withstood the constant wear of countless students and scholars who frequented this haven to pore over books and obscure manuscripts at long trench-style wooden tables.
“Have you ever been here before?” I asked Samuel as we walked toward a circulation desk at the front of the library, and the blue-haired girl with the silver nose ring who worked it. Our plan was to seek information on what we were looking for before we spent hours wandering the stacks.
He shook his head. “No. You?”
“Nope.”
Samuel learned our lives were intertwined through history, and I’d discovered I was not simply a Messenger, but a Seeker. Our identities were taking a turn, and we both wanted to know what this could mean for the future.
One of Samuel’s dark eyebrows quirked. “You know so much about history … you've traveled to so many places.”
“It’s not about the places,” I said. “It’s more about the people, the turmoil, and the messages I deliver. Besides, I didn’t meet you in every time I traveled to, but I was always happy to see you when I did.”
“Did you meet anyone else when you traveled?”
“Lots of persons,” I said, knowing this was a loaded question that someone who felt unsure of himself would ask. “But I was only attracted to you. I never fell for anyone other than you.”
“Good.” He took my hand, kissed it, then led me away from the circulation desk and the blue-haired girl.
He guided me toward an arched window in a tucked away quiet library nook.
A few people sat around well-used desks, laptops and books propped in front of them, and none of them paid attention to us.
Samuel dropped my hand and ran his own through his thick hair. "Confession. I feel bad.”
“Why?”
He glanced down, not meeting my eyes. “All the times you traveled, you wondered if I would ever remember you. And? Until recently, I never did.”
“This isn't on you, Samuel.” My heart sank. “It's not your responsibility.”
“And yet it is, because I didn’t realize how much I hurt you, Maddie.” He gazed at me, and I could see the remorse in his face.
“It's not your fault.” A lump swelled in my throat.
“Every era you traveled—you recognized me. You knew our history in different times: the tough times and the ones worth remembering. But I was clueless. Didn’t remember a damn thing.”
“You’re not an idiot.” I sighed. “Yes, being a Messenger has perks, but there’s plenty that is not pleasant.”
“Like?”
“Heartache. Tragedy. Wondering if the person whose body you inhabit will survive. Be grateful you're not a Messenger, Samuel. You might not possess the ability to remember me, or others for that matter, in every lifetime, but you still have skills that others don’t possess. Be happy that your skills differ from mine.”
“Skills?” One eyebrow quirked.
“Different subject for a different day,” I said.
A few weeks ago, after I clawed him back from death, I made the conscious decision to not tell him he was a Healer. Based on his current reaction, I think my instincts were correct, and he wasn’t going to let me crack open that treasure trove tonight.
"What abilities? I feel like I’m playing catch-up," he said. “I need to come to terms with who I am.”
I gazed up at his handsome face, my eyes taking in his cut cheekbones, thick, long-ish shaggy black hair, and those beautiful chocolate eyes.
Goosebumps prickled on the backs of my arms. “Look.
When I first learned I was a Messenger, I didn't even know what that meant.
I fell onto the train tracks in Chicago and blacked out.
I woke up in a field in 1675 in Abigail's body, surrounded by dead persons. And then I met you.”
“And now I finally remember that too,” he said.