Transcending the Legacy (24 page)

Nate looks over at him out of the corner of his eye.

Xander proclaims, “I already told you, it is not going to take over! We are too strong for that! It won’t take us!”

Xander glances at Nate, then back at me.
I catch something new in his eyes suddenly, a streak of suffering in his greenish-blues. “I won’t let that happen, Jes.”

Xander looks across the aisle through the window now. The emotions he briefly
revealed mere seconds ago are completely gone, replaced with the look of reserved detachment. I have seen this look on him before when an out of control loss was bearing down on him. He had the look just before we left Kyoto to traverse beyond the veil. I want to tell him to stop, not detach, and remain the combustible, hell bent, confident spirit that has always been Xander.

“Xander.”

Just as I say his name, the truck down shifts and brakes with the sound of screeching tires below us. The truck sways, pushing Xander and I into Ezra. Tessa’s scream and the sound of crushing metal are the last thing I hear before silence captures me.

The sound of crushing leaves is faint, barely detectable at first. It gets louder, clearer, like I am coming into awareness in this vision. I feel the sensation of pressure on my hand, someone holding it, pulling me. Powerlessly, my eyes open unveiling the scene I am captured in. I see the white hair of the shaman in front of me. He is pulling me along through the woods.
It is where I left off in the last vision.

The heavy wood we are swiftly walking through opens up ahead and a
faint, amber sunlight dances along the earth.

The high priest shaman is speaking in his native language again. Onawah is arguing back in the same language. It is strange to hear the words coming from me, but no
t from me really. They are hers, Onawah’s. I am just the conduit.

We exit the woods and come out in
to an open meadow busy with people, natives, moving here and there. Children dressed in deer skin chase behind their mothers that cradle baskets in their arms. A few children surround a woman sitting under a tree nearby. They are listening intently as she speaks animatedly
.
Thatched roof huts line the path the shaman is pulling me along through. There is so much to take in. I notice a larger structure on my right, just beyond the line of smaller huts; it towers over them. The walls are made of a mud-like clay resembling plaster with a flat rooftop. A smaller structure sits atop it, a thatched roof hut. I wonder what is beneath the mound.

I notice a man appear at the open doorway of the small hut atop the mound. He is looking out over the smaller huts. He looks down and takes notice of
the shaman and I, then looks out over the village again. I look over my other shoulder and see another section of small huts branching out along the length of the meadow, bordering the tree line. The village is enormous. Another mound with a thatched building atop, larger than the first, towers over another large patch of smaller thatched rooftops. No one is standing at the doorway of the upper building, but I see smoke rising from a hatch in the roof.

The chatter of voices speaking around me makes it hard for me to hear the shaman’s tone as he shakes his head at me, carrying on.

Onawah’s running argument has stopped. She must be listening to him, submitting to what he is saying to her. I wonder; is he telling her about the ritual? Is that why she is speechless? Something tells me this girl is not speechless very often.

The shaman suddenly veers us to the left down yet another row of thatched roof huts. As we pass structure after structure, Onawah g
ives me a glimpse into each hut, children, mothers, fathers, families. The second structure, the larger one is straight ahead.

Is he taking me there?

All of a sudden, the shaman stops and I bump into the back of the high priest, drawing my attention to what has stopped us. As I look up to see who has stopped us, I notice the uniform. It is identical to the one Onawah’s love had worn. My eyes trail up to his face and meet his striking sea-green eyes. The dark brows that frame them are furrowed; he is distraught.

He says the girl
’s name, “Onawah.”

His tone is troubled and burdened. His piercing eyes dart from me
to the shaman. His voice deepens as he asks him, “Where are you taking her?”

The shaman detours around him,
but the dark haired man keeps his grip on my hand, preventing the shaman from leading me away. “No, we can protect you! Don’t do this!” he pleads.

Suddenly, the shaman bellows in his native prose and within seconds, three natives are surrounding the uniformed man with a jagged blade resting on his jugular.
Gritting his teeth, he releases my hand as the native at his ear hisses and snarls his indigenous threat. Again, this gentleman’s strikingly eyes hold mine until the high priest tugs me into motion again.

I crane my neck the best I can
, needing to know that the natives aren’t going to hurt him. I hear a man yell out nearby, “Wait!”

The natives look in his direction as does the gentleman under the knife.
I see the man that gave Onawah the bracelet approach the dark-haired gentleman hastily.

“Stop!” he yells again.

The native holding the knife against the throat of Onawah’s champion drops it to his side and sheaths it, but still holds the dark haired man tightly. With fallen hair across his brow, he watches me as I’m pulled along.

The sight of Onawah’s love and the other gentlemen
, suddenly spurs sadness and panic within me. Onawah’s breath is coming faster and she is whimpering below the surface of each breath. As the two men stand side by side, I note the only distinct difference between them is their hair, one with a dark brown and one with a chestnut tone. Their features, their jawline, their eyes are so similar. Are they the brothers Elisabeth spoke of in her vision?

Suddenly, the dark haired man twists out of the native’s arms, turns to the other uniformed man, Onawah’s love,
and glares before stalking away. His eyes find mine again before I am pulled to the left into a doorway.

The way he looked at Onawah’s love, it was anger toward him for something;
a grudge or jealousy?

I get the overwhelming feeling that they are both in love with her and they are trying to save her from the ritual she must perform to protect her tribe.
They don’t want to let her go. Onawah is crying now because she doesn’t want to let go either, but she has no choice. She is the “wide awake one”.

My eyes have a hard time adjusting to the darkened struct
ure we have entered. I hear the voice of a woman speaking her native tongue first. She is speaking quickly, exasperated. The shaman takes me by the shoulders and sitting me on something hard; a tree stump. The rays of the sun pouring through the doorway are suddenly blocked by a tall form; a man in uniform, but not either of Onawah’s gentlemen. He steps through entry and approaches the shaman rashly, just as he sits on the stump next to me. The woman promptly steps in front of the uniformed man to prevent a confrontation between the two of them. Once again, her words do not make sense to me, but her expression of fear and warning speak loudly to me; she is trying to tell him to stop fighting this. Who is this new uniformed man and this woman?

The man looks into her eyes with a longing that only a man in love could relay in that moment.
He nods at the woman and she releases his arms. Trusting him to not continue the charge against the shaman, she comes to kneel in front of me now, taking hold of my hands. Her hands are rough, hard-worked, but warm and tender still as she pulls mine to her lips. I see the wetness of tears beginning to seep from the edges of her almond shaped honey brown eyes as she fixes them on me… Her gaze is sincere, tender, and full of love as she speaks to me.

I think this is
Onawah’s mother. This is the woman Sebastian told us about from his vision. He thought she was as well. I look at the uniformed man behind her looking down at both of us. This is the man Sebastian also saw in his vision. The one that leads Onawah and her mother to the mound, the tunnel.

I wonder where Onawah’s father is? Was he killed during a battle?
Is that why he isn’t here right now and this man is? I want to ask so many questions, but I’m trapped as a captive audience in this scene, just an observer.

The woman takes hold of my face with her hands, forcing me to
look at her. Looking at the mother’s tenderness with Onawah, it makes me think of her.

Unexpectedly, as the woman’s lips move I hear a voice that has been absent since our plane ride from Kyoto. The voice I have missed and yearned to hear right now.

The voice of my mother, Ana.

“I always thought it would have been me, just as my mother had thought it was her,” she says.

I want to tell her that I have talked to her mother, Elisabeth. That she is with us.

Ana’s voice carries as the woman continues to speak to Onawah, “I know. She is with you. I am with you, Jesca, always.”

The woman shakes her head as my mother says, “I forgive her for leaving. I know she did it because of her belief that the legacy was after her and she was trying to protect me. She knew Sebastian would be able to protect me in ways she couldn’t.”

The woman stops speaking and bows her head, just as my mother pauses. My mother begins again, “The two uniformed brothers, one with a level head and stable love, the other with the volatile temper and passionate love; they love this girl in your vision.”

I knew it! They are brothers. I can’t help thinking of my own plight with Nate and Xander, how my life seems to parallel Onawah’s.

M
y mother’s thoughts continue, “They want to keep her safe, keep her from the burden and pain the legacy can hold for her and her tribe. Even at her young age, she knows the legacy is a responsibility, a willing sacrifice, that she cannot turn her back on, no matter the consequence to her own life. She does not know the sacrifice yet, just as you still don’t. I fear that even if you see these visions through, see the sacrifice, you won’t fully understand.”

Onawah’s audible voice mirrors my chain of thoughts directed at my own mother. “Sacrifice, like death? She couldn’t have died. If she did, our bloodline would have died with her. She had to have survived, lived, married,
and had children to carry on the bloodline so that I would be born to fulfill the legacy.”

My mother’s voice
rings true
as the woman’s mouth moves again. “There are many forms of sacrifice Jesca. Hers was not death.”

Would mine be death? Is that why mother is visiting me now from beyond?

A strong breeze suddenly rustles a small whirlwind of dirt through the doorway and along the floor of the hut. Along with it, I hear a native call carry from a distance. The dirt settles and I see that the sunlight coming through the door has dulled since entering the hut. I hear the sound of horses hoofs pounding past the open doorway and look out through the opening. The shaman, my mother, and I rise just as the uniformed man rushes to the doorway.

I try to send my thoughts to my mother, “Wait! Is my sacrifice death?”

No response.

I think again, “Mom!”

No response. She is gone.

He looks out and calls to the shaman in tribal prose. The shaman rushes to the door just as I hear the screaming villagers.

It is the attack Sebastian told us about from his vision! The one led by Michael Sanderso
n’
s ancestors. Just like Michael has pursued me to prevent the legacy, his ancestors held the same warped mission; to stop Onawah and the tribe from initiating the legacy.
I want to rush to the door and help, but I am still held captive, standing next to Onawah’s mother in the middle of the room. The shaman looks at my mother, speaking urgently. Suddenly, he runs out into the village. The uniformed man motions to my mother and I and speaks in English urgently, “Hurry! I will lead you there!”

The sensation of my
self being peeled from Onawah’s flesh and bone is clear as day when her form moves away from me and toward the man at the door, her mother guiding her by the hand.

All of a sudden, I am rising, literally lifting off of the ground; an inch, then another.
What is happening?

The sound of pounding horses and yelling natives suddenly deadens.
Pressure builds in my ears quickly from the deafening silence. In one swift motion, the weight of my body returns and I drop to the ground with such force that my legs crumble beneath me and my head strikes the dirt sending a sharp pain from the back of my head to the front. I will myself to sit up, but it feels like my head is being forced to the ground. Then, a constant high pitched ring accompanies the pressurized deafness as I lay in darkness. My eyes must be pinched closed. The high pitched ring blossoms exponentially into a crashing, then crunching sound. As it blossoms it becomes distinguishable.

The sound of crushing metal.