I am never quite sure when I acquired the ability to see and hear things of
which no one else was aware. I suppose it had always been there. Sometimes, I
would know in advance the complete outcome of a horse race, and once, I rushed
from school in panic, because I knew that my dog had been hit by a car. However,
it wasn't until the age of fifteen that I made the startling discovery that I was
different and that everyone else did not go through similar experiences. At first, I
tried to brush them away as ordinary dreams, but once I had made the terrifying
realization that they were not, I became an emotional wreck --- I was a freak and
probably even crazy. Perhaps, I was one of those people with multiple personalities
or a psycho that they would stick away in an insane asylum. Also, there were those
dull pains that I had in the back of my head every now and again. Thinking that I
could have a brain tumor, I had extensive tests run, but there was no physical
reason for the discomfort or for these unusual sensations; at least none that the
doctors could discern. Although, their lack of success may have been my own fault;
I had never been able to force myself into telling anyone how vivid these "dreams",
these "visions" really were or that they usually happened exactly as I had foreseen.
I could not even summon up the courage to confide in my parents; even in the
closest of families (mine could hardly be considered close) that invisible, but,
nevertheless, very solid barrier between parents and children still exists. There must
continue to be secrets.
Once more, I attempted to ignore my feelings and to pretend that all was
perfectly normal. I managed to keep up the charade for almost three years, but my
fight to conceal and disregard these episodes finally began to impair my physical
health, as well as, what I had determined, my already deteriorating mental state.
It was at the end of my second year of college and I was cramming for final
exams, or rather staring at the open book lying before me in that kind of stupor one
becomes enveloped in when one has been concentrating all night. In the end, I must
have dozed. Suddenly, I was in a blue station wagon on the freeway near the
Pomona fairgrounds; I saw the sign. It was foggy. I saw headlights coming toward
me... too late to do anything. I recall he crunch of metal and a scream. To my
surprise, it was I who was screaming, still sitting before my desk. Later, I heard
about an accident on the radio; it was identical. I had to pour my anxieties out to
someone who would at least attempt to understand. In my whole life, I had found
only one person, other than my older sister, Erika, who was away at school in
Europe, to whom, even as a child, I could go with any difficulty... my grandmother.
Grandmother, never Grandma, was an extraordinary woman; the daughter of
a long line of diplomats ans statesmen. Above the average height, always
impeccably attired, graceful in every movement, and gifted with an exceptionally
penetrating wit, she dominated any scene. I looked upon her as a kind of dowager
duchess, and indeed, she did resemble the photograph in the encyclopedia of the
last Queen Mary. I often think that she must have cut quite a figure in political
circles as a "princess". Grandmother never allowed one to forget that they came of
"good blood", nor did she ever fail to be disappointed when some member of the
family didn't amount to much (and I was certain that I never would). Despite these
intimidating qualities, she had the ability to make the person with whom she was
speaking feel as though they were the only human being in the world that mattered.
As soon as Grandmother spoke to anyone they instantly felt at ease.
It was a particularly beautiful day in late May, not the usual overcast, chilling
damp coastal morning, and as I left my apartment, I hoped that the bright sun and
blue sky represented kindly omens. I sensed a strange contentment and happiness,
and looked forward to a long and pleasant drive up the coast to San Francisco.
Driving, instead of flying, would give me time to sort things out in my mind and to
think of exactly what I would tell Grandmother, whom I was dying to see. Besides,
I was absolutely free for the summer --- no school, no books, no papers, and no
exams!
It was almost midnight when I arrived before the narrow, but towering
gingerbread house that had survived the 1906 earthquake. It had of lovely view of
the city and the bay. In daylight one could survey a vista from the Golden Gate and
the Marin headlands, past Angel Island and Alcatraz, all the way east to the
Oakland Bridge and Treasure Island. Sadly, Grandmother said the view no longer
held the magic for her that it had once had; the new skyscrapers had ruined the city
for her.
I scaled the numerous steps and rang the bell, which was one of those
old-fashioned doorbells that have to be twisted. Maria, a short, middle-aged Latin
woman, who had been Grandmother's "companion" since my grandfather had
passed away, opened the door and ushered me into the parlor, patting my hand and
prattering all the way to receive my hug and kiss. Maria and Grandmother reminded
me somewhat of Neil Simon's "Odd Couple"; Maria incessantly fussing over
everything while Grandmother fussed over nothing --- not that she didn't want
everything presentable, she simply did not fuss. I had wanted to blurt my problem
out as soon as I saw the dear, old dowager, but she would hear nothing of it. I must
be tired after the long trip and, as usual, I did not look well --- I was too thin for my
height, my brown hair was dull, my eyes had no sparkle. I was to have a snack,
then go upstairs and to bed immediately. Anything I had to say could wait until
morning, and with my grandmother, to hear was to obey, as the saying goes. I
offered no resistance to the roast beef sandwich, which was placed before me, then
up the stairs we went, Grandmother in the lead and Maria, who must do nothing
less than carry my bag, bringing up the rear, chattering that I must take better care
of myself and not study so hard. The room had been carefully prepared; I was
summarily put to bed. I felt like a seven-year-old again, but to tell the truth, it was
rather pleasant. I had a marvelous, dreamless sleep.
I awoke quite late, but when I went downstairs, Maria and Grandmother
were just sitting down to breakfast; they had timed the meal magnificently for my
descent. It was another lovely morning (another good omen?), sunny and with a soft
sea breeze wafting wisps of fog over the bay, beyond which shimmered the emerald
hills of Sausalito. I tried to bring up the subject of my visit, but again, it could wait.
We must sit and enjoy our food. "Never rush --- it spoils one's digestion, therefore,
one's day," Grandmother said.
At last, just as I was about ready to burst from shear exasperation, which she
no doubt had noticed, she allowed me to explain the reason for my visit, while she
and Maria slowly sipped their morning coffee; this whole time she said not one
thing. I wondered if even here I had found misunderstanding. The dishes were
cleared away leisurely and in silence. Then, Grandmother calmly took my arm and
led me into the dark, high ceilinged, paneled library. She closed the double doors
behind us, moved to the windows to open the heavy velvet draperies, and then with
the sunlight flooding in through the immense bay window, she walked over to a
small, mahogany library table on which lay an enormous, Moroccan bound book
that had once had gold leaf on its pages. This was my grandmother's family history,
which went back many, many generations. However, I really didn't care about that
at the moment. I remember thinking, "Oh, no! Not a genealogy lesson. Not now!" I
slumped into a black, leather wing-backed chair that sat near the little table and
slightly overpowered it.
"This is at the root of your difficulties," she said, placing her hand on the
thick volume. I was somewhat puzzled by that announcement; I surely must have
looked it. "I think I am the first person in two hundred years who has actually read
this. It's been kept up to date, but I don't believe anyone has read it! We were
always concerned with the family prestige, but this book was always there and it
was so huge --- besides a good portion of it was in Latin, so no one bothered with
it. Then, when your grandfather died, I didn't know what to do with myself; I
decided to brush up on what Latin I had learned in school and delve into this." She
pecked her long, carefully manicured fingernail on the book's cover.
"The first substantial evidence mentioned in here is from King John's time,
circa 1200, when Sir Robert FitzJames married a Welsh noblewoman, Gwendolyn
ap Myrddin. The legend in this book has it that this woman was descended from
Myrddin, or Merlin, King Arthur's wizard. Of course, that contradicts all of the
tales about Merlin, but then, who really knows for sure? Anyway, up to the late
sixteenth century, every now and again a certain person in here would be described
as having 'Myrrdin's Gift'. I developed an extreme curiosity and resolved to go to
Britain to do some research. It was also an excellent excuse for me to remove
myself from this desolate, empty house. After ruminating among a multitude of
tomes, I determined that what 'Myrddin's Gift' amounted to was extrasensory
perception, ESP. I later recalled that, according to the history, Lady Catherine, the
mother of the young man who immigrated to Virginia in the late 1620's was
convicted of witchcraft in a rather sensational trial that developed after she was
widowed for the seventh time --- she certainly must have been tropical in her
reactions toward the stronger sex. I added things up --- Lady Catherine's being
denounced and hanged as a witch and the disappearance of all references to
'Myrddin's Gift'."
All this while, I sat there dumbfounded and more than a little skeptical.
Grandmother must have sensed my doubts for she said, quite sincerely, looking
straight into me with those piercing blue eyes of hers, "This has to be the cause of
your experiences. I'm absolutely convinced of it. It is your heritage --- your
legacy."
"But, why didn't you tell me this long ago? It would have saved me from so
much agony." I was now leaning forward int he chair, staring down at the dark blue
and red designs in the Persian carpet. I tried to tell myself that I had no reason to be
disappointed in her, but I was.
She began again, apologetically, "I should have known, but I had presumed
that the 'Gift' had died with Catherine, since there was no mention of it. However,
now that I think of it, Great-uncle Edwin did exceptionally well on the stock market
with the most unusual items. I am sorry, so sorry, dear. I had just assumed that you
were going through that troubled phase so many young people experience and that
it might be affecting you more severely because of your weak health. (Weak in her
mind.) Besides, after a while I heard nothing more about it from your parents. Oh!
What am I making excuses for? I should have known, or at least guessed." This
was the first instance I had ever seen Grandmother show any sort of a break in her
poise and self-mastery, but still she maintained her dignity.
"Then, the other evening when you called and said you needed to talk to me,
that you had been having some strange, upsetting things happen to you, it hit me
like a bombshell."
"If my name is in that book, you might as well write 'Myrddin's Gift' beside
it. Although, I don't understand how it can be called a 'gift'; it seems more of a
curse."
"Not if you use it well --- to your own advantage and that of others. Nothing
can change the fact that you are a clairvoyant, psychic, enchanter, prophet, call it
what you will. Just make the most of it."
That visit was the last time I ever saw Grandmother; Rachel Elizabeth
Carroll died in her sleep two weeks later, and now, I have the book. I dream about
her often --- she comes to me to guide me in my sleep.
I managed to finish my schooling at U.C.L.A., where I became involved in
parapsychology research, as a guinea pig. I did well in some areas of testing, such
as telepathy and precognition, but horribly in areas involving psychokenesis, or the
moving of objects. Most importantly, I learned to make myself receptive to these
impressions and I found that I had the most severe head pains when I
subconsciously tried to fight the image. However, I still have not been able to
master that part of my mind that wants to reject "Myrddin's Gift", and so, the pains
continue to come. Perhaps, they have always been a part of the package, after all,
Merlin went mad once. I do wish, though, that there was some way to turn this
thought receiver off; it does tend to become a bit tiresome being the receptacle for
someone else's mind.
I had intended to continue my schooling at Oxford or Cambridge after a year
or so of travel, but I have never been allowed the peace to do so. I believe that
Grandmother foresaw the problem, for she left me an annual stipend large enough
to support me much more than comfortably. "Dear, dear Grandmother, my Queen
Mary." At last, I slept.
