The Clearing: Origins

Chapter 31

The revelation of Dr. Mason's true identity sent the Grants into a tailspin. Lovedae stood on the cusp of the clearing as if turned to stone. But the Duo approached the dejected men after the brunt of their weeping subsided. Victor moved away to wipe his reddened eyes, and Rosetta placed a small hand on the doctor's shoulder.

He looked up at the little girl with troubled eyes.

"Do you... remember our super secret bedtime mantra?" Her little voice was shaky.

The doctor took the small hand and squeezed it. "A sleepy poppet is Daddy's moppet." The beginnings of a smile crept onto his unhappy face.

Her lips wobbled. "It is you!" The child threw herself in Dr. Mason's arms. "No wonder you felt so familiar!"

"Vic wouldn't lie." A nervous Jason stared at the doctor. "Dad, you're... alive?"

He gave Jason a quivering smile and opened his arms. The boy gulped and then ran to him.

Victor felt a lightening in his heart at the reunion—until he looked at his mother, her face devoid of emotion. He crossed to her, enfolding her in his arms. Lovedae leaned against him, trembling.

"Is it really Craig? Not some trick of Birgit's?"

"It's Papa."

"But... why?" she sobbed.

"What else could I do? Craig Grant had died. You'd gone on with your lives—and thrived!" The doctor approached his wife, a child clinging to each arm. "Lyle Mason lived in a rural village in Tanzania, researching the babu, the healers of the regions. There, he suffered a massive heart attack. The babus cared for him, but the basis of their healing is attached to the supernatural. So, when I awoke in this body, they knew I was not Lyle Mason."

Lovedae's tremors increased, and Victor lowered her to the soft grass. He sat next to his mother, keeping a comforting arm around her. After a brief pause, Dr. Mason and the children followed suit. All eyes remained on the doctor.

"It's a bitter story, my life." He took a deep breath. "I was born in Ireland sometime in the 1600s. Although a simple shepherd and farmer, my mind yearned for stories and legends of faraway lands. I'd sit in the fields tending the sheep while creating stories. One day, an orphan appeared on our lands seeking work. Her name was Roisin, an Irish name meaning 'little rose.' Ah, she enchanted me with her narratives of far-flung places and people, and I reciprocated with my fantasies. She taught me to read and write, and my world grew under her tutelage. Eventually, we married, settling on the farm with our two sons. It was a happy life, filled with love and storytelling."

Lovedae flinched, and Victor's arm tightened around her.

"Roisin's insecurities had me swearing daily that I'd never leave her. I thought it affection, but I was grossly mistaken. One day as I rode home from the market, my horse shied, throwing me from the saddle. Roisin appeared as I lay dying. I felt blessed that my wife was there, sharing my last earthly moments. Through my pain, I heard her speak to someone of my promise. She whispered, 'Forever, my love.' After that, darkness."

Lovedae sat ramrod straight, her eyes glued on the doctor.

"Suddenly, I sensed the essence of my oldest boy, Noah, twenty-two, in the dark with me. He screamed with my dying pains as he faded away. I reached for him, but he was gone." The doctor held out a hand, then dropped it. "When I woke, I was... weakened, disoriented, unsure of who or what I was. Roisin tended to me, a now feverish Noah, easing me back to health as her son—and Noah's murderer, the first of many atrocities."

"Horrible!" cried Rosetta.

The doctor gave his daughter a sad smile. "I've lived countless lives, moppet, the unwilling assassin of my own sons. I slid into their lives when mine ended with feelings of discontentment, knowing things were off beam. I knew something was wrong, and the knowledge increased as I aged. But with some, it took more time, such as my tenure as Craig Grant, who was very young when he was 'replaced.' But the journals I've written have been my memories, my documentation of the ongoing devilment."