A Gift or Curse

We left the opulent dining room and retired to a small, well-appointed library. Small is a relative term, as Jack McCabe doesn’t own anything small - why should he? Jack has the dubious distinction of being the world’s first trillionaire. No matter how much money a person can amass in a lifetime, it still comes down to how much time you have before your personal clock runs down to zero. Jack is rapidly approaching that end. His body is a weak, gnarled shell that has to be transported by a powered chair. He has lost all his hair, and his senses of smell and hearing are fading fast. Jack’s eyes, although requiring glasses to see clearly, still show the fierce determination of a world-class predator. Solving the time problem is why McCabe had his men bring me, Michael White, to his estate.

“I must say Mr. McCabe, I mean Jack, I’m sure that was the best meal a kidnap victim has ever been served,” I said.

“Come now Michael, don’t you think kidnap is a rather strong word?”

“If two armed men arrived at your door and told you that you were required to accompany them to my house, and no was not an option, what would you call it?” I countered.

Jack chuckled hoarsely and said, “Actually, they would never have made it past the front gate.”

“I have no front gate, or personal security service, so I guess I’m at a definite disadvantage. All that aside, why have you brought me here?”

“Well, let’s start with something simple. Who is Michael White? I’ve traced you back about thirty years, but then you simply disappear. There is no digital footprint, no birth or death records, and no old credit reports; nothing that would verify you ever existed. How is that possible?”

Before I could answer, Jack’s great grandson, Peter, came bursting into the room with all the exuberance of a 5-year-old. “Come see what I made for you grandpa!”

Jack was both annoyed and amused by his great grandson’s determination and excitement.

“Go with him,” I said. “It’s not like I’ll be going anywhere soon. Besides, time with your family is too precious to waste when there is so little of it left.”

Jack gave me a knowing look and replied, “You’re right. Please make yourself at home. I’ll be back after I’ve examined this new masterpiece of Peter’s.”

Jack and Peter left the room, and I poured another snifter of brandy. Settling into a comfortable chair I pondered … “Who is Michael White?”

1349

I was born Michel LeBlanc to a French peasant family in the year of Our Lord 1349. The Black Death was at its peak, claiming over a third of Europe’s population. The plague had taken my father the week before I was born, and my mother three days after she gave birth to me. A 12-year-old girl heard me crying as she passed our hut. Wanting to offer assistance, she entered the one-room dwelling and found me lying next to my dead mother. Antoinette, my rescuer, wrapped me in the last clean blanket she could find and took me to a wet-nurse. After my hunger was satisfied, I stopped crying and quickly fell asleep. Renée, my nurse, and my mother had been friends. When Antoinette told her how she found me, Renée decided to care for me as long as she could.

After six years of struggling to feed her own children plus me, Renée went to the local priest for help. Monsignor Jacque was getting on in years and decided he could use a house boy, so I went to live with him. In return for working in his garden, cleaning the rectory and church, feeding the animals, and a myriad of other odd jobs, I received food, clothing, a place to sleep in the hayloft, and most importantly, an education. Only the clergy and noblemen knew how to read and write in the 1300s. With knowledge comes value, and often power; my value to the priest grew as his eyesight dimmed.

Time passed, each year was much like the one before, work, study, and run errands. I was walking back to the rectory early one evening when I came upon a man lying in the gutter. He had been beaten and robbed by highwaymen and left for dead. I helped him to his feet as best my 12-year-old body could, and somehow got him to my hayloft. I never did tell the priest I had given shelter to this man. He healed remarkably fast and by the evening of the third day he felt strong enough to continue his journey. I asked him to stay one more night because it was safer to travel during the day. The man, I never did get his name, looked into my eyes with an intensity I had never seen anyone exhibit before. It felt like he was peering into the very essence of my being. I cannot describe the strange sensation that shot through me, and then the uneasiness was gone. It seemed as though the whole experience never happened, agreeing to stay one more night.

When I awoke the next morning, the man was gone. By my sleeping pallet was a note that read:

My friend, I have looked into your soul and found you worthy.

I have bestowed on you a great gift, although at times you

may feel it is a curse. It should be used with great discretion.

All will become clear to you in time.

I searched the whole stable for this supposed gift, but found nothing. There was much to do, so I tucked the paper in with my meager belongings and started the day’s chores. It didn’t take long for my adolescent brain to entirely forget about the man, the note, and the supposed gift.

The Present

Jack and Peter returned to the library. Peter, as excited as before, exclaimed, “Look what I drew for Grandpa. He really likes it, do you?”

On the paper, drawn in crayon, was a sketch of the mansion showing Peter’s grandfather in his motorized wheelchair, sitting in the entryway to his mansion, appearing to be surveying his domain. The drawing was remarkably detailed for a 5-year-old.

“That’s a fine drawing, Peter. You really have a talent for art,” I said as the boy stood there beaming.

“Peter, go and fetch some paper and crayons for Mr. White. He is a real artist, maybe he’ll draw us a picture.”

“Okay Grandpa” said Peter as he ran out of the room in search of supplies.

I stared at Jack and asked, “How do you know about my sketches?”

“In good time, Sir, in good time.”

Peter returned promptly and handed me several blank sheets of paper and a box of crayons.

“What would you like me to draw for you, Peter?” I asked.

Jack spoke first and suggested, “How about a picture of what Peter will look like when he is 40-years old?”

“That’s an odd request. How am I supposed to know what Peter will look like when he’s 40?”

“Not all that odd for a person with your talent I would think. I hear you can draw amazing likenesses of people, either from their past or their distant future.”

“I’m not sure where you received your information, but you must have me confused with someone else.”

I turned to Peter and said, “How about a drawing of a wild horse?”

“Yes, Sir. I like horses a lot.” Peter was bursting with youthful enthusiasm as I began to draw, all the while keeping a wary eye on Jack McCabe.

1362

Etienne de Poissy, the Archbishop of Paris, was returning from Avignon where Pope Urban, V was just elected. Daylight was running out, and the Archbishop decided to spend the night visiting his old friend, Monsignor Jacque. The two companions spent the evening amiably discussing church matters and learning of each other’s recent experiences. The Archbishop noticed the teenager attending them, and inquired about him. Father Jacque couldn’t sing Michel’s praises enough. He talked about Michel’s brilliant mind, his aptitude for languages (now fluent in French, Latin and Greek) and his ability to draw lifelike portraits.

“I’ve taught him all I know” said Father Jacque. “What he really needs is a first-rate scholar to tutor him.”

“If he’s that good,” replied the Archbishop, “I can arrange to continue his education with the Benedictines, providing he is prepared to move to Paris.”

Michel couldn’t believe his ears; move to Paris, the City of Lights. How his life was about to change, from being born in a poor serf’s hut to being taught by scholars. He packed his meager belongings, including the letter from the mysterious stranger, and joined the Archbishop’s entourage when it left the next morning.

1366

I spent the next four years studying under the Benedictine monks at the Abbey of Saint Germaine-des-Prés, located on the outskirts of Paris. It was a great time to be a young scholar. Even though the Hundred Years War was raging on, King Charles, V had regained much of the land lost to the English, and the age of the Renaissance had begun. I had learned Italian and Spanish and even a smattering of English. My mathematics were strong and my geography passable.

What set me apart was my sketching ability. Because of my connection to the Archbishop, I spent a lot of time at court. I would sketch noblemen, ladies, and occasionally the king. My work was unique from other artists because of my ability to draw subjects, not how they looked in the present, but how they had looked in the past. Also, for those adventurous enough to want to see, I could show them how they might look in twenty or more years. Many were amused by my sketches, but some began whispering about me being a practitioner of the dark arts and sorcery.

It seemed that the rumors gained traction the longer I stayed at court. The king died in 1380. I had been at the palace off and on for fourteen years, and I seemed to have stopped aging once I reached my eighteenth birthday. I was twenty-seven now, but still looked a good deal younger. The new king was incompetent and, having lost much of the land his father had liberated, started looking for someone to blame. A sorcerer would make the perfect scapegoat.

I had earned a considerable amount of money selling my work and, having developed a strong sense of self-preservation, I left Paris, and France, before things became too dangerous and I lost my head.

The Present

I completed Peter’s sketch of a wild horse running free across the plains. It was actually a memory from the time I had spent with the Cherokee around two hundred years earlier. Of course, Peter didn’t know that he just liked the drawing. He waved it in front of his great grandfather then ran off to show it to the house staff, leaving Jack and I alone once again.

“I guess it’s time we cut to the chase,” Jack said. “You may not recognize me, but if you use your special ability it will all come back to you. Go ahead, don’t just look at me, look into me and you’ll know.”

Keeping up the pretense of ignorance no longer seemed to be a viable option, so I stared into the other man’s soul. His life flashed in my mind like a movie on fast forward. What I saw was Khaled, Jack’s real name, standing in the temple of Ra along with several other acolytes. They were sacrificing a young boy in an attempt to capture his life force. They hoped Ra would grant them, if not immortality, at least an exceptionally long life with the ability to replenish their life force from time to time.

Next, Khaled began traveling from location to location, and from century to century, absorbing some lives and granting extended life to others. The chronicle slowed during 1361 when he was cared for by a 12-year-old boy (me) after being beaten and left for dead. Khaled (Jack) was the stranger who gave me this gift.

A smile stretched across Jack’s withered lips. “So young one, you start to understand who I am. I have helped some and hurt some, depending on whether I felt they were worthy or not. You are the only one I gave the full gift to. Now I need your help once again. As you can see, I’m dying. I chose to fall in love and have heirs, which dissolved my contract with Ra. You can give me my youth back.”

“I tried restoring someone’s life and without a willing donor I wasn’t able to,” was my reply to Jack. “Even if I could do it, why would I? Besides, viewing our first meeting, I also saw who you have resuscitated. Attila the Hun, Vlad the Impaler, Rasputin, Jack the Ripper, even Hitler, are all people you found worthy. Why would I want to save someone with such poor judgement? I also saw how you became so wealthy. Of course, I’m wealthy too. It’s impossible to live this long and not gain wealth. Unlike you, I didn’t lie, swindle and sanction murder to become rich. Besides, if I were to grant you this request who would be willing to give you their life force?”

“You’ve already met him,” replied Jack. “Peter has a strong life force, and sacrificing him will please Ra and restore me. You see, I knew I was coming to my end, so I planned for my continuation by having a family. I just needed to find you to complete the process.”

Jack then reached behind his back and brought his hand forward holding a semiautomatic pistol. “Now let’s go find Peter, shall we?”

I remained seated and smiled at Jack. “Your plan is flawed Jack,” I said. “I’m the only one who can change your situation, so you can’t shoot me. Nothing you do can make me help you. I’ve lived a long time and if I die tonight, I can honestly say I’ve left the world a better place. Can you say the same Jack? Peter will grow into a fine man. He will use his inherited wealth to change the world for the better. Oh, one more thing, when I looked into your life force, I saw that tonight, actually this very hour, is your last on earth. I’m sure you and Ra, or whoever is in charge now, will have a lot to talk about.”

Rising from my chair I said to Jack, “I’m going to find Peter now. He’ll need guidance in the coming years.”

As I walked down the hall, I heard the muffled sound of a gunshot. A small smile crossed my lips as I opened the door to Peter’s room; secure in the knowledge that there was no one left alive to threaten his future.