The Phoenix Effect

The Phoenix Effect

Book I: Waking Giants

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Prologue

Slumbering Memories

         It seemed that he had been absent far longer than he had first thought. A great number of things had changed since his last “re-birth”; indeed, it seemed everything had changed. It had been nearly three hundred years since he had last walked this familiar path, now laden with fall’s colorful arrangements of browns and oranges underneath his heavy boots. He paused briefly in his hike towards the old mansion on the horizon, and allowed his lungs to be filled with fresh country air, a taste that he had greatly missed. His torn, ratty scarf danced eagerly in the chilled wind, the leaves finding solace in their cotton partner. Thick strands of honey hair concealed bright green eyes, the wind brushing against his cheek like the sweetest kiss. A final country breath filled his chest to spur the young man on the final leg of a rather long and arduous journey.

         He had refused to get his hopes up, though he knew that she was just like him. They were built in pairs after all, and hopefully had experienced yet another “re-birth” as well. But whether or not she remembered him was another issue all together. In most cases, each re-birth was a different life, a clean slate if you will, in which no memories of any previous lives remain, yet all are locked away within one’s heart until the time is right for revealing a person’s true destiny or purpose on Earth. He knew however, that they were unique among those gifted with ‘re-births’. It seemed that Fate had forever intertwined their spirits to one another; he was destined to find her once again, to love her. He was also vaguely aware that not everyone experienced these “re-births”. What had made those people that did so different, so special? He supposed he would uncover the truth soon enough.

         The Mansion before him had not changed since his last visit. Though the gardens had grown wild and dominant, thick vines of ivy now weaved patterns along the stone structure of the manor’s face. The second floor balcony above the grand entry way still stood proud, though several banisters were missing. The gargoyles on the roof remained ever vigilant in seeking out those who did not belong on this sacred ground which he now disturbed. The building’s once majestic ramparts had lost some of their gleam, but his eyes could still see the beauty hidden underneath, all the grandeur of nearly three hundred years. A fierce wind blew through the old complex as he climbed the creaking front steps. Instinctively he pulled his heavy jacket closer. The spirits would not be happy about being disturbed. The once gilded door before him had long been robbed of its sparkling face, and now clung with fading strength to rusted, crumbling hinges. The weakest push of his gloved hand allowed him entrance to the place where he had spent most of his childhood in a previous existence.

         Inside, the grand foyer remained intact and clung despairingly to an air of prestige that had long since past. Around him, large sections of the walls were barren, the wallpaper withering and peeling away like a flower in atrophy. Large pieces of the elaborate marble floor were cracked and missing. He could still remember when brilliant lights from the chandelier above cast a marvelous glow on the green and milky veins within the smooth stone. The very same chandelier now rested solemnly, forgotten by time. Shattered and broken at his feet, its hand-crafted glass splayed out like water on the floor. Its frame had become crumpled and grotesque; a rusted orange coat now shone where sleek metal once smiled. Vaguely familiar portraits of landscapes and family members hung crookedly in cracked frames along the walls accompanied by various lights long deprived of oil and electricity. Dual grand staircases coiled like serpents upward to the balcony along the second floor, the very same place he had first seen her all those years ago. The elegant banister was broken and vacant in several places, as were parts of the steps. The large mahogany door nestled between the staircases would lead him to the grand ballroom.

         To his right, the door to his father's private study still held strong, the lettering on the nameplate, Dr. Rodger J. Barrett, Ph. D; Historian, barely identifiable from his position by the foyer entrance. The first door to his immediate left would take him into his mother's private parlor; the second door would take him down a winding staircase to the empty kitchens, though he knew he would still find lingering smells of all his favorite dishes. Closing his eyes briefly, he took in a crippling breath of his past - the dust that had protected the manor for centuries now mixed with his slumbering memories.

         He had come here for only one thing, and he had to find it quickly. He could feel the dormant spirits begin to stir, and he was not keen on answering to them now. The watch on his wrist had begun slowing, and the fortnight date had almost come. Pushing forward, the young man climbed one of the grand staircases carefully and quickly before he made a sharp right towards the grand manor's east wing; there was no other route to access his destination. This section of the building was far older than the rest, the wing being the only remaining section of the original structure to survive the fire in 1756. The family had managed to rebuild larger and more grandiose than the last time; the project having been completed in 1766. The last door on the left would lead him to the library, which boasted bookshelves that stretched both the first and second floors. A smaller staircase inside would lead him back to the ground level. Inside the library, a natural smell of old leather, worn pages and dust still permeated the air. Vine-chocked windows allowed the last remains of the fading light to guide him to the oldest bookshelf in the room, framed by moth-eaten velvet curtains. The rose window at the top of the far wall had long been broken out; pieces of its proud face now littered the ground beneath him. Within the bookcase's wooden walls, some of the most famous and important books regarded by man slept. Trained eyes quickly searched the shelves, before he finally spotted the torn leather binding of the journal tucked away along the top shelf between some of da Vinci's notebooks and Voltaire's Emile. Plucking it carefully from the shelf, he tenderly pealed back the pages until he spotted a short entry that spanned no more than half a page:

14 August 1793
This will be my final entry. At dawn, I will hang for treason although I am an innocent man. I pray that through my unjust death, my honor will be restored and that recent slanderous remarks against my family will be set right.

         He carefully closed the journal once again, finding no reason to read the short entry to its end. So he had hanged for another's crime. This much he could remember, but he felt ashamed in not knowing whether his family's honor had indeed been restored. Turning the journal to its face, there was only one more mystery to solve before leaving. Carefully dusting off centuries old dust, his eyes could barely make out the gold script on the cover against the quickly fading sun: The Journal of Jethro M. Barrett. Jethro. The identification used in his past life would again be called to arms in this one. Tucking the journal into his satchel he quickly turned and left the building, doubting if he would ever return again.

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         Jethro's once idle memories quickly began to awaken from their dormant state as he walked along the grounds surrounding the manor, tender fingers flipping through fragile parchment. Jethro's strange journey through multiple reincarnations began in 1066, during the Battle of Hastings with an arrow through his chest. His next crucial entry, for there were others that served as an interlude, was dated 1455 and held detailed hand sketches of the fall of Constantinople, and violent slaughter by the Ottomans. In 1620 he remembered pledging allegiance to Germany during the Thirty Years’ War. The Eighteenth Century held vivid, blackened memories of the French Revolution, and the image of his beloved Marie facing the guillotine shortly before he came into close acquaintance with the great Madame herself. The most recent entry was dated May 17, 1915 from the H.M.S. Lusitania. Shutting the journal carefully, he placed the small book inside his satchel. His mind was racing. It seemed both his re-births and deaths had occurred prior to or during some of Europe's most critical historical events. Perhaps Lady Death had more great adventures in store for him after all. 

         Currently, Jethro's thoughts had been washed in his memories of his beloved Marie. Any clues to her location, however, remained shrouded in black fog in Jethro's mind. Instead the images of a great old castle in Scotland and flashes of a withered old man hidden away in an abandoned monastery danced mockingly before his mind's eye.