One Great Year Read online

  ONE GREAT LOVE, ONE GREAT ADVENTURE …

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Greenleaf Book Group Press

  Austin, Texas

  www.gbgpress.com

  Copyright ©2014 Intelligent Design Publishing Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright holder.

  Distributed by Greenleaf Book Group LLC, except in Canada

  Canadian Distribution by Red Tuque Books Inc. Unit #6, 477 Martin Street, Penticton, BC, Canada V2A 5L2

  For ordering information or special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Greenleaf Book Group LLC at PO Box 91869, Austin, TX 78709, 512.891.6100.

  Design and composition by Greenleaf Book Group LLC

  Cover design by Greenleaf Book Group LLC

  Cataloging-in-Publication data

  (Prepared by The Donohue Group, Inc.)

  Veitch, Tamara, 1969-

  One great year / Tamara Veitch, Rene DeFazio.--2nd ed.

  p.; cm.

  Originally published: Surrey, B.C. : Intelligent Design Publishing, 2011.

  Issued also as an ebook.

  ISBN: 978-1-62634-023-7

  1. Reincarnation–Fiction. 2. Memory–Fiction. 3. Soul mates–Fiction. 4. Good and evil–Fiction. 5. Fantasy fiction. I. DeFazio, Rene, 1963- II. Title.

  PR9199.4.V458 O54 2013

  813/.6 2013940339

  Part of the Tree Neutral® program, which offsets the number of trees consumed in the production and printing of this book by taking proactive steps, such as planting trees in direct proportion to the number of trees used: www.treeneutral.com

  Printed in Canada

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  Second Edition

  For all of those who have loved us on our path.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Our sincere thanks and appreciation to Shirley Anderson, Suzannah Denholm, Daryl Wakeham, and all of our friends and family who have aided and supported us on this journey. We offer our humble gratitude to the divine inspiration that has allowed this book to flow through us and to every reader who has chosen to spend his or her time in the world within these pages.

  “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is.”

  —ATTRIBUTED TO ALBERT EINSTEIN BY GILBERT FOWLER WHITE1

  CHAPTER 1

  THE WEARY TRAVELER

  Present day, Seattle, Washington

  Maxwell Quinn had been reincarnated an exhausting number of times. How many lives had he lived? He could hardly count them. He knew that the evolution of human existence followed patterns that cycled roughly every twenty-six thousand years. Plato had called it the “Great Year” 2 and Quinn knew the ancient concept well. He had lived through the Gold, Silver, and Bronze Ages that had come before and had descended into this dark, brutal Iron Age. Quinn searched the night sky, knowing that the precession of the stars was truly a clock. He hoped that the most difficult time in his obligation was over, give or take a few hundred years.

  Quinn rubbed his forehead with the back of his thumb, ruffling his messy black hair. He lit a joint and took a few puffs, brushing a flake of ash from his Lenny Kravitz T-shirt. It helped to slow the constantly spinning filmstrip of his mind. He opened the window a crack and exhaled into the cool Pacific Northwest evening.

  Quinn rented a small apartment in the outer suburbs of Seattle. The forested hills and fields filled him with peace. He watched a bulbous black spider outside his window as it repaired its web. It had been there for weeks. He had watched it climb, trap, and mend, over and over, up and down the delicate grid. Quinn observed the microcosm of the greater world and felt at one with the creature.

  Quinn had done it all—travel, exploration, rebellion—but now he was tired of trying so hard. He was an old soul, and he was weighed down by the memories of all his lives before. He pushed away the voice that reminded him that lessons remained yet to be learned. Human hibernation was not a viable option, even for him.

  Quinn was a loner, an orphan since his fifteenth birthday, when his parents had been killed in an automobile accident. He had gone to live with a bachelor uncle, but the relative hadn’t had or wanted children, and since the age of seventeen he had been on his own. He had only his buddy Nate and a few casual friends in his life. At forty-five, love had eluded him. Quinn got by repairing computers from home. He had chosen a job that required little human interaction but which fed his incredible intellect at least slightly. He didn’t desire material possessions, and he warily avoided the spotlight and notoriety, ever on the lookout for his adversary, Helghul.

  Quinn shifted his attention to the television behind him. After a moment he snapped it off in disgust. He tossed the remote onto the chaotic pile of newspapers and books that had buried his sofa. Television aggravated instead of relaxed him. It was pure hype, supply and demand. The fear-mongering talking heads smiled and reported, barely aware of the words that they read: immense tragedy, war, corruption, political unrest, another big-bottom bimbo or celebrity overdose. Gossip and propaganda were pasted like wallpaper over the truths that protruded and begged for attention underneath. Consumers ate it up and grew fat on it, demanding more. What about the others, the individuals doing good work and seeking to better the world? Quinn refused to watch while they were largely ignored and the dark souls absorbed the spotlight.

  Quinn blogged as “The Emissary” and spent hours every day surfing the Internet. The World Wide Web allowed ideas, hopes, and fears to be sent across the globe in a nanosecond. People shared and connected openly, and information was plentiful, though often erroneous. He searched for facts, for breaking scientific discoveries, and for signs that people were continuing to spiritually evolve. He followed changes in the world’s weather patterns and kept an extensive spreadsheet on the natural disasters. Tragedy and devastation have a way of waking the soul, and Quinn was hopeful. He considered noteworthy people as they emerged and had boxes of haphazardly labeled information he had collected. He never opened them, relying instead on his comprehensive memory.

  Quinn was not only looking for proof that the Dark Age was ending, but he was also tracking other Atitalans—Emissaries like himself from the ancient land who had been sent to guide mankind in its evolution. Many of the Emissaries were healers, musicians, scientists, artists, or teachers. They were the way-showers, laying clues for those who cared enough to seek spiritual growth. He could never identify fellow Emissaries for certain until he met them in person. Their special auras differentiated them like fingerprints but were rarely captured in photos and video, and if the karmic code did show up, the shot was usually discarded as overexposed. Seeing auras was no special skill. Quinn just knew what to look for. The human brain rejects ninety percent of what the eyes see,3 but he knew how to see.

  In Atitala, Quinn’s name had been Marcus, and his Marcus-brain—a deep, ancient consciousness—was awake within him, constantly guiding, educating, and urging him to duty. Atitalan Emissaries had been sent to rebuild the world when the last Golden Age had ended. He assumed the others were active and contributing. He was confident that they were not sedentary, disgruntled, and stoned.

  They don’t know what I know, Quinn justified to himself, taking a hard final drag of his tiny roach. He flicked t
he dying ember and dropped the scrap in a soda can.

  The red light on Quinn’s telephone flashed to indicate a message, but he ignored it. It could wait until tomorrow. He refused to carry a cellphone, refused to be constantly accessible—there was a self-importance, an egotism, and a hollow neediness attached to those things. He was not a cardiologist; no one was dying on the table. He had no inflated sense of individual significance, though he could have and perhaps should have.

  Quinn positioned himself in front of his keyboard, and The Emissary began his blog for the night. He had it all figured out—the meaning of life, what comes next—and he saw that the answers were all around him. For centuries people had been handed the clues, and yet they continued to ignore them. Maybe his inconsequential blog would reach someone who needed it. Hopefully he was contributing to the ever-evolving collective consciousness. His compulsion to expose humankind to the obvious truths surrounding them would not be denied.

  For the first twenty years of his adulthood, Quinn had tried to ignore the obligation that weighed on him. He had traveled the world searching for an elusive spirit, one he had loved deeply beyond all others. Quinn’s Marcus-brain urged him to seek out his soulmate, Theron, as he had for centuries. Despite his searching, Theron had not been found—not this time, not yet.

  CHAPTER 2

  MARCUS AND THERON

  First Love

  Theron lay limp in Marcus’s arms, her eyes closed and her breathing ragged. “I thought you left me,” she sputtered.

  “I will never leave you,” he promised.

  Their wet skin was freckled with sticking sand. Marcus’s chest heaved as he stroked her dripping hair. She was all length and limbs in his arms. He noticed the odd angle of her bloodied leg and protectively squeezed her against his muscular chest. He shuddered with the realization that he had almost lost her.

  Above them, in the shadows on the edge of the excavation, stood a fair-haired young man unnoticed in the commotion. Helghul watched his fellow students with eager interest. He had heard Marcus call for assistance, yet he had remained still, fighting the impulse to aid the troubled pair. His conscience beseeched him to help but he had resisted, his mind in turmoil. His will had been torn as he had contemplated what it would mean to be rid of her.

  The day had begun like many others. The sun rose on a gorgeous white sandy coastline. The place was called Atitala,4 meaning “white island,” and was one in a succession of great civilizations. Atitala was the seat of power to a vast empire, which was governed by eleven spiritual leaders called the Elders. The Elders ruled together, led by White Elder.

  The Atitalans believed firmly in one creator or, more accurately, a single point of creation, which they called many names, including: God, the Great Spirit, the Eternal White Light, or the Source.

  Atitala was stunning, built almost exclusively of white, black, and red stone. The rooftops and columns were embellished ornately with precious metals. There was a Great Hall atop the high plateau at the center, and on the outermost points of east and west were two impressive pyramids.

  Marcus and Theron had soared to their destination, swooping through the canopy, steering the crystal glider easily as the leaves brushed past them.

  Theron was an unusual beauty; her russet hair blew wildly as they rode. From a distance she looked like a torch, a fireball speeding through the forest. Her narrow green eyes squinted almost closed when she laughed, and days spent on the sunny coast had left her fair skin mottled with freckles. Theron’s prominent nose marked her as oddly striking. There was something compelling about her, an allure not contained by her physical shell. She was almost always flush with emotion: passion, fury, competition. Her aura, or karmic code, shone violet, purple, and in rainbows of emotion around her. Despite her sarcastic wit and competitive nature, Theron was magnetic and charming.

  In contrast to Theron’s fair complexion Marcus’s skin was a deep brown, and it looked as though he had been buttered and baked for a feast. His springy black curls were exactly the size of his thick fingers and fell across his forehead and dark brown eyes. Theron had wrapped her arms tightly around his narrow waist as they playfully dipped and weaved through the trees. The duo had channeled their energy into the small transport, and the crystal that had enabled them to fly had grown warm in the pouch at Marcus’s hip.

  Atlantium crystal was found only in Atitala and, because of its powerful properties, it was carefully protected. It was a power source that, when combined with a disciplined will, allowed the holder to control gravity and movement. It had allowed for miraculous advances in flight and was used in the building of all the great architectural feats of Atitala, including the perfectly designed pyramids. It was an essential tool in the Golden Age and had many other extraordinary capabilities.

  Marcus and Theron had arrived at an inland lake at the base of a large quarry. The pool was surrounded by rocky cliffs to the north and dense jungle to the south. The young couple loved to spend time there and almost always had the remote water hole completely to themselves. They often held hands under the water and practiced the mind games and telepathy that all Atitalans learned as children. It was an intimate and familiar way of communicating used only between family members and friends. It was not an unspoken voice, it was not words, exactly; it was more like intentionally transmitted images, feelings, and meaning. Theron and Marcus would spend hours exchanging thoughts and ideas without a sound, immersed in one another’s energy.

  As they swam, Theron had been actively speaking in detailed mind pictures to Marcus. They had held their breath and glided just under the surface of the sparkling lake. Just as they had reached the steep cliffs adjacent to the atlantium quarry, an enormous boulder splashed dangerously close to them.

  The pair had dived as two more large boulders rumbled toward them. The water rippled in anticipation, and the swimmers dove deeper to evade the heavy stones bearing down on them.

  Suddenly, a stone broke through the water directly on top of Theron, submerging her and pinning her to the lake bottom. The panic-stricken young man had pursued her down but was unable to move the boulder that pinned her right leg. They had struggled frantically, pushing and tugging to no avail. Theron had watched in horror as Marcus left her and returned to the surface.

  Marcus had known that he was almost out of time. The atlantium crystal in his pack was her only hope. The rockslide had opened a small gap where a steep cliff had once been, and the air was thick with dust. The determined man had scrambled up the shore, his feet slipping. His young body was being pushed to its limit as he foraged desperately through his rubble-covered bag for the crystal.

  Through the new opening in the cliff, several of the quarry Nephilim5—the giant people who mined the sacred stone—had watched the frenzied man indifferently, uninterested in anything that did not offer material gain or gore. The workforce was welcomed on the island, as all beings were, though they were monitored closely to ensure that the harmony of Atitala was not compromised.

  Atlantium crystal in hand, Marcus had returned to the pool, already summoning the inner energy he would need to activate it. Using his own life force, just as he had in flying the glider, Marcus had been able to touch the giant boulder and raise it off his motionless soulmate.

  Marcus had pulled Theron from the water and immediately begun resuscitating her. Finally she had sputtered; there had been a freshwater flood and coughing, and the young woman had opened her eyes. She was alive, and Marcus was overwhelmed with gratitude.

  “I thought you left me,” she had choked, still gasping. She remembered the helplessness she had felt as she had watched him swim away.

  “I will never leave you,” he had promised, cradling her in his arms, his voice muffled and lost as he had placed his lips to her head. Theron’s crushed leg was bloody and bent at an awkward angle, and Marcus held her still to reduce her pain.

  From above, Helghul had watched with conflicting relief and disappointment as Marcus emerged with Theron. H
e had hoped she would drown. He had hoped she would live. He had been at odds as to what he had desired for her, though he had certainly wished that Marcus had died.

  In their younger days Theron, Helghul, and Marcus had been friends. She was funny and clever and had created the most fantastic games and challenges. She was a great student and teacher, and she consistently outperformed everyone. Marcus didn’t mind being outshone, but Helghul grew to resent Theron.

  Though Theron consistently outdid Helghul, as they matured he concluded that she would be his ideal mate. She was intelligent, unusual, and so powerful in her telepathic and psychic ability that he couldn’t help but admire her.

  Theron was a phenomenon among her people. Astral travel was a skill that usually took centuries of the Atitalans’ exceptionally long lives to develop, but Theron’s parents had discovered when she was a child that she had a special talent for moving beyond the material dimension. Without training, she had shed her human vessel, connected only by an invisible umbilical cord, and her spirit had traveled the Astral Grid.

  Theron’s father had also been a gifted telepath and psychic, and at the time of his death he had been the Elder of the Sixth Chakra, also called the third eye. He had taught his daughter to control and respect her abilities. He had warned her of the dangers that lurked at the edges of the Grid and had urged Theron to stay within view of the Great Light, avoiding the dark Guardians that howled and thundered from the abyss of the outer realm.

  Theron was the only student in Helghul’s class that he believed to be his equal. He resisted the love that he felt for her, but he acknowledged that theirs would be a powerful alliance. In the early years it had not been clear that she and Marcus were anything more than friends, and it seemed absurd to Helghul that she could ever choose Marcus over him. Certainly she would choose brains and breeding over ease and brawn.