The Origin Stone

Chapter 1-3

I bolt upright, gasping for air. Sweat clings to my body as I shrug off my tangled duvet cover in the gloom of my darkened room. Weakness floods through me. Am I shaking? I hold out my hand, but it’s as steady as ever.

Yet my birthmark, two dark round blobs fused together like a figure eight just up from my wrist on my right arm, is searing with pain as though someone’s just stuck it with a needle. But as usual, there’s no sign of blood or even a graze.

“You were screaming in your sleep again.”

I jump, catching sight of the tall, skinny figure in the doorway, topped with a pristine waterfall of hair. Ru. In the light from the hall, concern shines in his vivid green eyes, just visible behind his glasses. Those glasses. I remember when he first made the frames for them. It was two months ago as part of his design project for school. He found several pairs of Victorian frames at an antiques shop and cobbled them together with a few added pocket watch cogs to make them fit with the steampunk style he wanted. When he showed them to his optician to get a set of lenses fitted, the old man’s jaw fell open in amazement and his false teeth came out.

Despite Ru’s eyes being the same colour as mum’s, they don’t carry the same sharpness as when she looks at me after I’ve had a night terror. No, I carry that particular trait, though thankfully, mine are dad’s steady brown, and the effect is far less intimidating.

“Jeez, you scared me,” I say, sitting back against my pillows.

They’re cold and slightly damp. Apparently, I was not only screaming, but crying too. Fantastic.

He switches on the light and joins me on the edge of the bed. “It was that dream again, wasn’t it?” he asks, his voice soft.

I nod as, completely un-called for, more tears streak down my cheeks and into my dirty-blonde hair. I brush them away angrily, but he puts his hand on my shoulder.

“It’s alright, Em,” he says. “You’re safe now.”

“You won’t tell mum, will you? She’ll only send me to the doctor again,” I say, my voice sounding much smaller than normal.

I hate that about myself. One vivid little dream and I’m a complete mess.

“You know I won’t. Or dad. But I am worried about you, Em. How many years have you been having this same dream? And since we’ve moved here, you’ve been having it almost every night.”

“I know, you don’t have to remind me,” I reply, rubbing my birthmark again. Why does it sting this much?

There’s a pause. I can tell he’s examining me, calculating my mood before he makes any suggestions.

“Perhaps you should visit the doctor again,” he suggests finally, straightening his glasses as they attempt to slide down his nose.

“Maybe, but last time all he said was my active imagination is overtaking my dreams. There’s nothing he can do to stop it unless I want to become a medicine junky.” I pull a face and he gives his half-hiccup, half-snort of a laugh.

“I suppose you’re right. I’m convinced it’s just moving stress.”

“I guess, but why? It’s not as though this place is horrible. Besides,” I add, “I’m not the one having problems at our new school.”

“I had problems at our old school too, it’s not just this one. You know how other guys treat me, Em. They just think I’m weird, and because they don’t understand me, they say stupid things. It’s just words, and words can’t hurt me.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He turns to go.

“You don’t think I’m crazy like Great Cousin Maggie was, do you?” I ask, just as he reaches the door.

“Don’t be silly. Great Cousin Maggie was only nuts because of the accident she had as a kid. You’ve never so much as stubbed your toe, and you’re not exactly having hallucinations all the time, are you?”

I close my mouth, thinking about the bee I saw in the garden disappear right in front of my eyes. One minute it had been pollinating flowers near the entrance to the woods, the next it was gone, as though it had been plucked right out of the air.

“Here,” he says, rooting through his dressing gown pockets and pulling out his book on bug identification. He tosses it to me, the slim, battered volume sinking into the mounds of my duvet. “Try some light reading. I know how much it interests you, you’ll be back to sleep in no time.”

I stick my tongue out at him, but open the book all the same. His trick works, because the next thing I know, bright, warm light is spilling in through my window and the birds outside are singing merrily. As their song warms my ears, the fear I felt in the night seems ridiculous. Who could be scared living in such a beautiful place?

The floorboards creak outside my door, and I make out the padding of four huge paws. There’s silence for a moment, then the door bangs open and a great weight flings itself at me, pinning me to the bed.

“Morning, Brennan,” I say, wrinkling my nose at the meaty breath of our Rottweiler as he licks me full on the face.

The smell is overpowering, and I gag. I wriggle my way out from under him and land with a thump on the floor.

“Alright, alright, I’m up,” I say, lumbering to the bathroom to wipe all the slobber off. I love dogs, but being slobbered on is disgusting.

After I’ve scrubbed the thick, slimy film from my face, I head downstairs into the kitchen, tiptoeing around the huge mosaic on the floor mum’s spent the whole week cleaning up to perfection. Apparently, it’s been here since before World War Two, but until we moved in three weeks ago, it’d been covered with carpet for the past fifty years by Great Cousin Maggie.

The mosaic is a depiction of an enormous raven, perched on what looks like the gate leading up to our drive. It unnerves me, similar to the raven in my dream, and I can’t help but think it’s the same one.

“Why she covered it, I have no idea. Honestly, hiding such a beautiful piece is practically a crime!” mum declared yesterday, after scrubbing the last of the dirt and dust away.

She’s an artist, thus the desecration of anything even remotely creative ignites her temper instantly. Her speciality is painting, and recently she had an exhibition at The National Gallery in London called Always Two, featuring two sets of still life objects, with one appearing new, while the other would be worn from long use. I didn’t get the sentiment behind it, but they were interesting pieces to look at. I do remember she was nervous getting ready on opening night and forgot to put her shoes on, turning up in her paint splotched slippers instead. Most of the guests thought it was a fashion choice, and mum was only too happy to go along with the idea.

Dad paints too, but his work is more practical than creative. One of his first jobs after he finished his apprenticeship in painting and decorating was at a conservation zoo, painting the exterior of the gift shop to resemble a jungle. That was also where he met mum, who’d not long graduated from art school and was working in the café there trying to earn funds to rent a small studio. According to the story, they spent three whole days arguing over what brush should be used to create the effect of long grass. Dad wanted to use a thick brush with basic long strokes of uniform length to ensure it would be done as quickly as possible, but mum said using a thinner brush to create grass blades of different sizes would give a fuller, more convincing finish. In the end, mum won out, and six weeks later they had their first date.

Aside from having the mosaic carpeted over, Great Cousin Maggie apparently had a great love of the colour avocado. Everything in the kitchen, from the cupboards to the tiles behind the sink, is that sickly shade of green.

I actually met her once, when I was about five, and even then, my impression of her was she was completely off her rocker. Like Ru said last night, I know she had an accident when she was young that left her spouting nonsense about seeing ghosts in the garden and around the house, but I don’t think either of us expected her to be genuinely terrified of what she saw.

Yet now, after seeing the bee disappear in the garden and how frequent my dreams are becoming, I’m wondering if what she said really was just nonsense. Could there be something supernatural here? Or do I just want to prove to myself I’m not crazy? I just don’t know anymore.

Something rubs against my leg and I flinch, spilling the cereal I’m pouring into a bowl all over the table. But it’s just our cat, Tiddlywinks. Before I know it, his sister Hopscotch is there too, followed by Brennan and our two golden retrievers, Honey and Cheyenne.

“I get it,” I sigh, unable to keep a straight face as they all sit by my feet looking up expectantly. “Food time, huh?”

I open up the bottom cupboard and reach in for the bags of cat and dog food, filling their bowls and giving them fresh water. They eat without giving me a second look. No thanks for small favours, I guess. Suddenly I hear a bang against the window, and find Mrs. Swanson staring me out.

Light footsteps come down the stairs and dad appears, his dressing gown hanging off his narrow frame like a tent. “I see Mrs. Swanson’s on good form again. Did you let her out of her shelter?” he asks with a grin. I shake my head. “Must have been your mother, then. She darted out into her studio this morning before the birds were even awake.”

He heads over to the coffee machine and puts in a fresh filter, stifling a yawn with his hand. Mrs. Swanson’s gaze is now latched onto him intensely, and I’m afraid she might bore a hole through the glass. He laughs, pulling on his coat and wellies and resigning to go outside to feed her.

Just before he opens the back door, he turns. “By the way, I’m going to paint your room today.”

“Do you want me to help?” I ask.

He pulls a face. “Don’t be silly. You’ve been at school all week, relax for a change and enjoy the sunshine. And tell your brother to do the sa--”

Mrs. Swanson interrupts him by head butting the window again. “Alright, girl. I’m coming, I’m coming.”

As he steps outside, she runs away from him and heads straight for the shed where her feed is kept, waiting for him to catch up. He opens the wooden door, but before he can even get the bag of feed out, she grabs it and runs over to mum’s studio, knocking over two dustbins in the process. She stands there munching away at both bag and feed until mum comes out, with her overalls covered in paint and wondering what all the noise is about.

"I should have known it was you,” she says wryly, trying to heave the bag away from her before it splits completely. Mrs. Swanson clamps down on it with her jaw. “Stubborn old girl. I hope you appreciate the only reason you get the posh feed this week is because of the paintings I sold.”

Dad chuckles. “You do spoil her, you know,” he says. Mum scowls at him.

“Remind me again who brought her home two years ago, when that nasty client of yours threatened to have her put to sleep just because she was a runt? Honestly, you and your soft heartedness are completely responsible for all this.”

“Are you saying you would have let him do it?” dad asks smugly, knowing full well what her answer will be.

Her face falls. “Of course not. I’m merely pointing out that our extended family is of your doing, not mine. That’s all,” she says huffily. Dad chuckles again, and she storms back into her studio and slams the door.

She’s right, actually. Mrs. Swanson, the dogs and our cats all live with us because of dad, who brought them home from clients of his who either couldn’t, or wouldn’t, look after them.

Only the Grand Vizier is the exception. Ru and I found him one day while we were walking the dogs. He’d fallen out of his nest, but it was so high up, we couldn’t reach it to put him back. Not wanting him to die, we had no choice but to bring him home and trust he survived the night. We all took turns feeding him every few hours, hoping he’d make it. Now it’s hard to get him to leave us alone.