Vision

VISION

by

Beth Elisa Harris

SMASHWORDS EDITION

*****

PUBLISHED BY:

eInteractive Media on SMASHWORDS

ISBN: 978-1-4581-8136-7

VISION

Copyright © Beth Elisa Harris, 2011

All rights reserved

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS Registration Number
2011904385

Harris, Beth Elisa

Vision / Beth Elisa Harris

Juvenile Fiction/Science Fiction, Fantasy,
Magic

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal
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respecting the author’s work.

*****

“We want to know the truth about
reincarnation, we want proof of the survival of the soul, we listen
to the assertion of clairvoyants and to the conclusions of
psychical research, but we never ask, never, how to live.” Jiddu
Krishnamurti

*****

Remember…

Clairvoyance: 17th century French with clair
meaning “clear” and voyance meaning “vision.”

Guardian: a person who guards, protects, or
preserves.

Bane: a person or thing that ruins or spoils;
destruction or ruin.

PROLOGUE

Colonsay, Scotland

July 1731

Sarah and Jonathan MacPhie collapsed into the
goose down mattress, a wedding gift from Jonathan’s father seven
years ago. Sweat beads gathered on her upper lip as she traced
random patterns on Jonathan’s chest, her mouth smiling, her eyes
full of woe.

She lay tucked into his arm, not shifting her
head to meet his eyes, but she knew they were closed.

She knew this was their last night together
on earth, but Jonathan did not know as he lay peacefully, stroking
Sarah’s long amber curls, smiling over his good fortune.

When Jonathan fell into deep slumber, she
softly slid from the bed, slipping her gown over her moist body.
Sitting at the small table in the kitchen, the vision was channeled
into a letter, her last words left for anyone to read. She walked
over by the fireplace where her mother’s marble urn sat in the
corner – its contents emptied earlier that day.

Carefully rolling up the letter and tying the
circumference with string, she slipped it into the empty urn.
Outside by the peach tree she buried the urn holding the letter in
a shallow hole, knowing it would be found in time and read by the
intended recipient. This vision had been the clearest one of
all.

In the distance the men gathered to plan her
death.

Further away a woman wailed with grief.

There was nothing to do but wait.

Portland, Oregon

Present Day

CHAPTER ONE

“
Run!” She shouted, before plunging to her
death. Tonight my feet betrayed me like cement boots. Glued to the
ground, unable to move, one of the men held a knife to my throat,
ready to remove my head with one swift slice. Pulsing veins
throbbed in my neck, exposed and vulnerable, anticipating the
intense burn of the blade just before the deadly slash. But I would
not surrender to my fate, because it was not my fate, it was hers.
So with just the thought of running, my feet detached from the
earth and I ran, leaving my killer behind, bewildered, his arms
dropping to his sides.

Then we were both chased. I ran behind her,
watching the long, faded blue Highland gown burning, disintegrating
ashes drifting from her body in puffs of air as the cliff
approaches. She would make the jump as always, while I woke myself
up before they chased me over the edge onto the jagged sea
rocks.

Now I know it’s her, but I didn’t always –
Sarah.

Her amber hair and eyes exact replicas of
mine. The all-consuming grief coursing through her veins as she
leaves her love behind is palpable, and I can only dream of a love
so rich.

Afterward my nightshirt is always soaked,
hair kinked and clinging to the sides of my face.

The horror would never stop. Ever. Sleeping
through the night had eluded me for the past ten years. So
exhausted, I get up and shuffle to the shower; head pounding with
each step, doomed to this endless freak show called life.

I’m so over it. And then I remembered. Today
I’m leaving for England.

That thought alone gave me a shot of pure
adrenaline.

Today would be different and if my evil plan
works, Portland High would not see my face again. I pictured the
rumor mill spreading like wild fire, with talk of my exotic travels
overseas, the enviable opportunity to expand my boundaries at such
a young age, to escape the parents. The truth is if anyone did
notice, the story would likely morph into some silly or mildly
spectacular rumor. Did you hear about Layla Stone? She went to
England to have her baby…or perhaps, I heard Layla’s parents
shipped her away because they didn’t want her anymore. I grinned to
myself and relished having another secret to myself.

My dad Sam drove me to the airport while I
mindlessly fidgeted with the new silver charm bracelet he gave me
as a going away present. There was one single charm; a heart with
my name engraved – Layla. He told me over time charms could be
added to represent my experiences, until it was full – as in a full
life. Dad loved symbolism, and was ironically more emotionally
charged than Liz, my mom, who worked almost round the clock in a
research lab conducting neurological experiments on gosh knows
what. And even though Dad works weird hours as a physical therapist
for the Seattle Seahawks, we were way closer than Mom and I would
ever be.

Honestly, it’s highly doubtful she even likes
me.

Whatever. There are still perks to being
me.

Growing up in the Stone house with absentee
parents has been like living on my own, isolated being an only
child, but with tons of independence. They were lucky I was smart
and chose studying over ink and piercings. Someone else in my
position would have been a seasoned rebel with a police record, or
pregnant, or a drop out, exercising full exploitation of too much
freedom.

That’s why they are letting their almost
sixteen year old (okay, in five months) daughter travel to
Cambridge for a year to study and live with a host family,
completing what will be equivalent to my junior and senior year
abroad in a college environment.

I’m the poster child for the advantages of
good grades and scholastic achievement.

It pays for freedom.

Anyway, I was looking forward to a good dose
of humanity – living people and all, a new world.

Dad noticed the distant land I occupied in
the car. Between my bracelet and touching the edge of the envelope
containing the letter, he could see I was a nervous wreck. “You
okay, sweetie?”

My stomach was in the middle of performing
Olympic size somersaults, so I only returned a meek nod.

Tucked in the pocket of my carry on, sent by
Abbey Grace of Scotland, the letter arrived just days before
departure as if anticipating a change in inertia – kind of creepy,
but creepiness wasn’t a foreign concept in my world.

After reading it several times, my memory
held the contents verbatim, remembering the near perfect
handwriting on the canary stationary.

Dear Ms. Stone,

Please forgive the sudden correspondence from
a total stranger. My name is Abbey Grace, a resident of the Isle of
Colonsay in Scotland. I have discovered something on my property
that concerns you, and possibly your Mum. I think it would be too
confusing to send. Is there any way you could get here? I
understand you will be going to Cambridge to study – I will explain
how I know that when we talk. Please contact me when you settle in.
I am enclosing my phone number below.

With regards,

Abbey Grace

The strange letter almost made its way to the
trash before instinct kicked in. Something told me it held secrets,
and while I couldn’t deal with the concept just yet, throwing it
out was not an option. Neither was discussing it with anyone.
That’s how the letter ended up in my carry-on.

Dad was talking. “Sorry Dad, what was
that?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled in the
familiar way I would miss, his thick brown hair disheveled from
rushing to get out of the house. Earlier he when he galloped
downstairs pulling a Police t-shirt over his head, I caught a rare
glimpse of his one and only tattoo. The dark bluish-green name Liz
was inked over his heart in one-inch high calligraphy – homage to
my distant, cold, over-achieving absent mother. I know, poor me.
Cue violins please.

They met while attending Stanford taking
pre-med courses. Both had sights on medical school, but ended up on
a different path. Dad chose physical therapy, and Liz picked
research.

Personally, the whole ink thing made me
cringe. Tattooing someone’s name on your body was way too intimate
for me.

“I said your ambition reminds me of your
mom,” Dad repeated.

My head jerked to face him and my eyes
narrowed into slits. “I. Am. Nothing. Like. Her,” I seethed.

He startled a bit, sensing my obvious
displeasure with the comparison making me hunch down in the seat.
He didn’t deserve me barking at him like that.

“Jeez Layla, I meant that as a
compliment.”

With arms folded over my chest, staring out
the window, my heart thudded with guilt for snapping. Dad was only
trying to broker peace, but the thought of any remote resemblance
to Liz was horrifying. We were polar opposites. She is an aloof
scientist, while I am a passionate reader of literature. She
thought about numbers and formulas, while I thought about Faulkner
and Wilde. I could read minds, and she was, well, clueless. “Sorry
I snapped, Dad. I just resent the comparison.”

All he could do was sigh and I left it at
that. I didn’t have time to explain about all the times Liz had
forgotten to pick me up after school, or at the mall. How I packed
my own lunch, or searched the house for spare change while he was
away training and Liz was responsible for my wellbeing. No, there
wasn’t time.

I had to go.

He pulled to a stop in front of the airport.
I had already forbid him to walk me in, another of my demands that
crushed his intention. He wanted to go through security and escort
me safely to the plane, but that was only an excuse since the
diligent TSA team should resolve any threat to my safety.

I probably hurt his feelings then too but I
could foresee the inevitable overt display of maudlin. It was hard
enough leaving him, and my heart broke a little more each minute
that crept closer to departure time. We would see each other –
again – and I wanted to show him my super strength; the same stuff
that had brought me to this place. I could do this. But the part of
me that wanted to cling to his leg like I used to as a little girl,
fought viciously with the yet unformed part of me expected to be
mature about the situation. The contrast was brutally unbearable
and there were moments in between the excitement of the adventure
when I questioned what the hell I had gotten in to.

So much for my plan – right after I said
goodbye to Dad, tears blinded my vision as I pulled my luggage into
the terminal. The waterworks finally subsided once the plane
leveled off at thirty thousand feet and I put my earbuds in,
drifting off to sleep, suspended between two continents, existing
nowhere.

CHAPTER TWO

My host family, Henry and Patrice Brown and
their daughter Sienna picked me up at Heathrow Airport. Sienna was
my age, completing her compulsory education requirements, and
advancing to Sixth Form College at Hills Road in Cambridge where we
would both study. Students in England finish what is equivalent to
high school in the States at sixteen. Very cool.