Awoken (The Lucidites Book 1) (14 page)

Panicked, I open my eyes to find the bull standing on the opposite side of me, backing up and getting ready to charge again. The huff rips through the night. His hooves tear the ground to pieces.
Did he run right through me?
Maybe he missed the first time?
Turning my attention away from the beast, I dash for the fence, afraid to find out if I’m indeed invisible. I clear it in one swift movement as though possessed by a foreign agile force.

My breath hitches in my throat as I hurry in the direction of the barn. Loud noises echo from inside it. Pulling my weight up tight onto my tiptoes I clear the next fifteen feet. Then the thought occurs to me that no one can see me except maybe Zhuang, and if he has then I’m already dead. I walk normally, driven by the curious sounds and movements of shadows cascading from the structure up ahead.

In my fantasy, I’ll stroll into this idyllic barn to find farm animals asleep on the hay, looking sweet and happy. I’ve always romanticized the idea of living on a farm, but never truly been on one. I want to know how it feels, the way it smells, the way the people interact, the way it makes you wholesome.

Stealthily I pull up to the crack along the door and peer through. I don’t spy one single animal, but I do see a man. He’s large, sitting on a hay bale, and without a doubt completely drunk. The double chins and patches of gray hair on the man’s head make him look old, but his overalls contradict this impression. There’s also a childish expression on his face.

The man’s talking adamantly to a lumpy burlap sack. His slurred words throw spit all around him as he grips the bag and pulls it close to him. “Don’t die, Meg, please.” Visible tears run down his eyes. “Don’t leave me alone, all alone with dat boy. Please! I beg ya! Please just hold on ‘nother year, ‘nother few!” He pulls his hands off the bag, seemingly swimming up to consciousness for a second, and immediately grabs the bottle beside his leg. “Oh God, why’d you have to take her? Why?!” The man throws back his head and drinks for several seconds. He scans the barn with a disoriented disdain. “Joe.” He chops on the word. “Where’d chu run off ta now? I’m gonna find ya and when I do…” The threat hangs angrily in the air. The man stands and staggers for the door where I’m peering. I stand back just as he and his smell flood through the doorway. He’s headed toward a tiny house on the main hill, beside an overgrown driveway.

The pathetic farmer heaves beside a tree for a minute. I search for any animals besides the bull that almost ran me over. There doesn’t seem to be any. Once the man is upright again he starts for the house. After tripping over the first step he pulls himself up and makes his way inside, leaving the door wide open behind him. I follow.

“Joe! Ya in here, ya good for nothin’ piece of lard?!” The man squints around in the dark. He kicks the coffee table and curses angrily. The way this man swears he doesn’t fear God, as much as despise him. With a thud he throws himself on the sofa and says, “Joe, ya know dis all your fault. Your momma’s dead and it’s always been your fault, boy.” The man moans loudly like in pain. “You’re a curse,” he whispers then grows quiet and soon begins snoring.

Once the drunk is out I inspect photos lining the wall. The first is of Joseph and his parents when he was a baby. They’re in a church, looking excited with wide smiles and twinkling eyes. The next is of them in front of the church when Joseph was a toddler; his mother wears a forced smile and his father has put on a bit of weight. In the last, they’re standing by the river, and Joseph is maybe around six, his mother is skinny and his father sullen as he stares in the distance. Joseph smiles broadly in all the photos.

There aren’t any other pictures. No pictures of siblings or prized pigs. The house is unkempt, disgusting. This isn’t what I had in mind when I wished to visit a farm. I close my eyes and try to shut out the loud snores of the drunken man. My focus remains tight on the Eiffel Tower. That’s where I want to go now. I’ll go back there with Bob and Steve later, but for now I need some place great to take me away from this horrible mess.

Chapter Seventeen

M
y morning alarm rips me from my Parisian exploits. I spent the night exploring L’Avenue des Champs Elysées. I’d wandered until I stood at the top of the Eiffel Tower staring down at Paris. I wished to be one of its simple citizens, unaffected by dream traveling and crazy villains. Now my reality is telling me I have twenty minutes until I need to start endurance and strength training and the whole night seems like a sad joke.

My muscles don’t respond properly as the training commences. I fear they never will. The trainer, Mario, explains that being in excellent physical shape is critical to maintaining balance among the three parts: mind, body, and spirit. He graces us with this information after we’ve run three miles and have two left. I never made it to the goal so I’m a bit out of balance the rest of the day. The only redeeming part is Goat Girl passed out after only two miles.

I take a long shower and grab a protein bar and a bottle of juice from the main hall before ducking into my room. I can’t stomach one of Joseph’s stories about his fake family. I have no idea why he’s a compulsive liar bent on pointing the finger at me, but I don’t really feel like figuring it out right now either.

♦

Shuman takes three large strides into the lecture hall, pivots, and stands in the middle of the platform. Commanding. Her black hair glistens under the bright lights. “Most of you miss a lot,” she says, aiming an accusing finger at us. Cracking her knuckles she turns to Whitney. “Be really quiet and listen. Can you hear anything?”

Whitney, the girl with brown, curly pigtails, shakes her head. “No.”

Shuman looks disappointed. “That is because you are not listening.” She walks to the next desk where Trent sits. “How about you, can you hear anything?”

He stares for a second then shakes his head.

Shuman points out into the distance. “Out there, a ton of information is trying to get in here.” She points to her head. “You have to be open to it, or otherwise it will hit the walls of your brain and land on the floor, completely useless. You cannot do anything with it there. In order for the information you receive to make sense to you, the mind must retrieve it and deliver it to spirit. This is where the magic happens.”

She taps the top of Goat Girl’s desk, startling her from a daze. Unfortunately, she’s supposed to train all day with us. “You scored a hundred percent on the first task. How?”

Misty looks surprised. “I-I-I guess I allowed my spirit to retrieve the m-m-message,” she stutters.

Shuman narrows her eyes skeptically. “I will consider that.”

Her dark amethyst eyes find mine. “And you, Roya, also scored a hundred on the first task. How?”

There are startled noises at my back. All eyes hone in on me. I sense them. Trying to block them out, I recall the first task. “Well, I concentrated. Specifically, I focused and tried to relax. I pictured a telephone in my mind. I knew you were able to call on it and I waited until I received the message.” I maintain eye contact with Shuman, although it’s uncomfortable. Finally I shrug. “That’s all.”

She holds out her hand flat at me and turns to the group. “You must remain open and focused.” Shuman steps back onto the middle of the platform, her commanding presence once again reinstated. “Today we will practice this openness and focus. Come and lie down here on the ground.”

No one moves. We just stare.

“Now!” she orders. Everyone clambers to find a place on the platform. The floor is cold and hard on my sore body. I readjust several times to find a comfortable position.

“Why don’t you watch it,” George fires at me. “You just kicked me in the head.”

“Sorry,” I apologize, embarrassed.
Did everyone in this Institute lose their meds? Why are people so crabby?

“Can we get a pillow or something?” Goat Girl whimpers from across the room. “This floor really hurts my head.”

“Consider it good practice.” Annoyance is evident in Shuman’s tone. “You will rarely meditate in a comfortable location.”

Goat Girl grumbles something under her breath.

“Let us take a page out of Roya’s book,” Shuman begins. “Visualization is an important way to receive information if you know what you’re looking for. Later we will discuss methods for obtaining information from the unknown. Everyone close your eyes and concentrate on your breath.”

For the next hour we’re guided through a meditation. First we work our way from our toes all the way to the crown of our head, releasing tension from every single muscle and organ until we’re completely relaxed. Shuman has us visualize several locations, always paying special attention to details. She explains that the more we focus on specific details the more in tune we become to the message being delivered. “If you only see the sunrise or a landscape in your visualization, then you will only receive broad pieces of information. If instead, you see the blades of grass and the grains of sand in that landscape, then you will receive a volume of information equally accurate to your level of detail.”

I’ve always been drawn to meditation and visualization. It’s something I did naturally as a kid. However, when Shuman speaks of it, or anything for that matter, my head becomes fuzzy and I find myself somewhat disinterested. I think it’s her airy tone that lulls me into a confusing comatose state.

“Tomorrow, same place and time,” she says as I stand stiffly. “We will go over abilities.”

♦

The hostile vibes assault me as soon as I settle at the lunch table with my usual assortment of rabbit food. Samara, who’s been friendly to me since the beginning, looks down in disapproval. Trent follows suit by shaking his head with irritation before returning to his mashed potatoes. Joseph stares, watching me; I shrug in confusion. He continues to stare and then looks down blankly at his food. George sits with the white coats. Aiden also sits with them, animatedly telling stories. I ram my fork into a cherry tomato causing juice to squirt all over my clothes. Glad to have an excuse, I get up and dismiss myself from the table.

I can’t begin to understand why everyone’s mad at me. True, I haven’t really formed any relationships with these people, but I also haven’t spent enough time with them to give anyone a cause to hate me. It seems like there’s an epidemic of “hate Roya disease” spreading quickly. Maybe this is overdue. I spent my life distancing myself from people. It was only a matter of time before they started treating
me
poorly. However, being treated with indifference is one thing; disdain is quite another.

I throw my stained shirt into the laundry basket and pull on a new one. The clothes I’d taken off yesterday are already clean and hung in my closet. My bed is made and someone has tidied my room while I was gone. I could get used to this.

♦

I consider pretending to be sick so I don’t have to train with Ren. Alas I decide against it and find myself the first one seated in the lecture hall.
Damn my rigid nature.
I have this affliction for being overly punctual. Considering that most everyone on the team hates me, I probably should consider showing up a little later from now on. At least that would prevent me from sitting in an uncomfortable silence while people shoot me dirty looks. I keep my head down and my attention locked on my desk while everyone trickles into the room.

From my peripheral I spy Ren, who suddenly appears in the middle of the room. He stands nonchalantly in a blue shirt with a shiny black blazer draped over it. His look of superiority ingests the room as he calls every eye to him.

He smirks, pointing at George. “Tell me, how did I enter this room?”

Looking startled but determined George says, “From the back, sir.”

“Wrong,” Ren rings out like a buzzer. Then he points at Goat Girl. “Next.”

She shrugs, looking around the room with uncertainty. “I dunno, you came in through that door.” She points to the front of the room.

“Wrong,” Ren yells again. “You.” He points at me.

“I don’t know,” I say flatly. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Typical,” Ren says before turning to Joseph. “Next.”

Joseph gives a sideways smile. “You and I walked in together just now.”

“Nice try,” Ren says and then smiles wickedly. “Wrong!”

Taking center stage Ren says, “Seven seemingly intelligent people and no one can tell me exactly how I entered this room. Why?! Is it because you really are a bunch of gits? Or is it because I tricked you? Before you decide the answer is the latter, please know both options could be correct.” His smugness is tangible as he pulls up a stool and sits on it.

“Everything, and I do mean everything, can be an illusion.” Suddenly there’s no stool. Ren’s standing like before. I close my eyes and reopen them trying to focus. There isn’t even a stool on the stage or anywhere in the classroom. I shake my head.
Why did I just think Ren had sat down?
Looking around I realize everyone else is disoriented as well.

“Don’t trust what you see! Question everything!” Then he’s gone. Literally he vanishes right before our eyes. The door at the back slides open and Ren strides into the room wearing black slacks and a white shirt. “The answer to the question is I never entered the room—not until just now.” We all look at each other, confused. Ren cackles

“Everything can be an illusion. We’re all choosing a reality. Each reality can be different depending on the observer. For my little trick, you all were the observers. Some of you were worse than others.” Ren scowls at me.

“Most of you do just that, you observe, which gives illusionists the opportunity to implant projections into this ‘said’ reality. This type of trickery, which you’ve just observed, is extremely difficult to manipulate in physical form. That means don’t try what you just witnessed at home, boys and girls, ’cause you’ll fail. Leave manipulating physical realities to the experts.” He smiles, placing his hand on his chest. “That would be me.”