The Gifted

By Marcus Williams

Meg came into his life without warning and pulled out of him the gift he had hidden deep inside when school bullies taught him the value of being "normal." After a life of forcing himself to blend in, Meg turned his world upside down and taught him to use his gift for good. She helped him understand his special gift in a way he never thought possible.

But resurrecting his gift also brought back his childhood pain and came with a high price. It was only when the man tried to wrench his gift away that he found himself carried away on a journey of loss, discovery, and friendship. On a bus ride with strangers through the high desert, he finally found his place and grew to understand the symbolism of the birds. That bus full of strangers and avian charms brought clarity once again and changed his life forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Williams & Co Publishing LLC
• Release date: Dec 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201011765

Marcus Williams

Marcus has written thousands of pages of law enforcement reports describing the details of cyber crimes, sexual assaults, drug trafficking, and murders during his career as a federal agent. He now uses all of that "practice" to tell stories that excite, entertain, and engage. While life doesn't always have a happy ending, there is always hope found in family, friendships, and kindness. He and his family have lived all over the world and love exploring and making friends wherever they find themselves: from California's high desert, to Sicily's historical marvels, to the beaches of the mid-Atlantic coast, to the rain soaked forests of Washington, to the base Mt Fuji, and to the majestic Rocky Mountains. The world is full of mystery and untold stories.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Present

Icould not have described the heat any better than the man on the bus did when he spoke of our destination. It’s funny, because he seemed to know my destination before I did. I boarded the bus in Denver and chose a seat in the back near the toilets. It smelled of sickly-sweet disinfectant and urine, but I figured that would stop anyone else from sitting next to me. After a few hours I didn’t even notice the smell anymore and the headache wasn’t really that bad. There were maybe seven other passengers on the bus, and they all sat closer to the front, guarding their privacy as heavily as they did their worn-out suitcases. I doubt any of them had possessions worth guarding, but I liked to pass the time imagining what could be so valuable that they slept fitfully with one hand through the strap of their bag.  Did riding on a bus breed that kind of mistrust?

There was an old Hispanic woman traveling with a young pregnant girl sitting about halfway back on the left side of the bus. The girl was like a prairie dog, every few minutes her head popping up and whipping left and right before disappearing behind her seat. I guessed her to be about fifteen, but I’m not very good at guessing age so she could have been older. She had her hair in tight pigtails, and she looked uncomfortable in her hand-me-down faded maternity clothes. The old woman, who I imagined to be her abuela, tutted over her and soothed her by stroking her pregnant belly; but abuela still carried an air of disappointment, or maybe it was disapproval. It was in her wrinkled gray eyes whose expression never seemed to match her thin smile. Abuela wore her gray hair in a tight bun. Reading glasses hung from a chain around her neck. She wore a loud flower print loosely fitting dress and comfortable looking all white generic sneakers. When she wasn’t watching over her granddaughter, she put her glasses on the end of her sharp nose and worked on a newspaper crossword puzzle in blue ink.

A middle aged African American man sat in the front seat just behind the driver. His hair was graying at the temples and sweat beaded on his prominent forehead. He wore a cheap brown polyester suit with a shirt that at one time must have been white. Now it was more the color of the sand whizzing by on the shoulder of the road. His tie was loosened and still way too long, puddling in a pool of green and beige diamond patterned nylon between his legs. The air conditioner on the bus wheezed from the overhead vents, air that was just slightly cooler than the outside high desert heat, yet the man never took off his suit jacket. He had a black duffel bag tucked smartly into the overhead compartment, but he held tightly to the scuffed brown briefcase in his lap. He never sat back in his seat, but was always leaning forward at an angle to see around the bus driver in front of him, his finger drumming out an unheard rhythm on the case. The seat across the aisle with a clear view of the road was empty, but the man seemed to prefer the protection of the driver as a buffer between himself and the open road.

A young couple banged loudly onto the bus at the stop in Grand Junction, bumping elbows and stubbing toes with their maroon hardback roller suitcase. After arguing over which empty row to claim, the young man propped the case on the back of a chair and unzipped it, revealing a mass of colorful shirts, socks, bras and underwear. Socks and panties spilled into the aisle as he dug through their combined possessions. Abuela wrinkled her nose and even I, at the back of the bus near the toilets, could tell the couple hadn’t done laundry in some time. With a look of triumph, he pulled out a half empty bag of beef jerky and began stuffing the tangled nest of cotton back into the case. The young woman pointed out the escapee clothing and he cursed as he bent over while trying not to spill the case. The girl just sat and watched, periodically laughing at his struggle. I could see the driver’s annoyed look in the rearview mirror as he waited for the new arrivals to stow the case and sit. A sign at the front of the bus, laminated to the wall with yellowing packing tape, clearly read the driver couldn’t start until everyone was seated with luggage stowed. He didn’t care if you got up once he got going, but I guess safety was paramount during initial take-off. The young man finally managed to wrestle all of his dirty laundry back into the case, and he tried to place the case overhead. It clearly didn’t fit, but he tried every angle before finally giving up and just plopping it in the row behind them. It’s not like we were lacking for space.

He was tall, maybe 6’2", and there was an unhealthy yellow pallor to his white, pockmarked, and blistered skin. He was rail thin. He had either lost weight recently or bought a used belt, because he had clearly drilled new belt holes, and the belt stuck out awkwardly from his side. He looked angry, not at the girl, not at the bus, but at the world, or maybe himself. He sat and began voraciously gnawing on the jerky.

The young woman didn’t look much better in terms of life longevity and healthy living. I couldn’t tell the natural color of her knotted hair, but the black roots and blond tips did not appear to have been done in a salon. Her face was non-distinct except for her eyebrows, which were painted on too high and too dark on her forehead. She had a bluing tattoo of a baby’s face on her shoulder and when she moved, it looked like the baby was trying to escape from her skin. She wore a too tight tank top advertising Archie’s Burgers and too short cutoff denim shorts. Her visible bra was that gray/blue color white bras get when it’s time to let them go. She immediately freed her feet from her dirty flip flops and put them on the seat in front of her, showing off cracked and chipped black toe nail polish. She put on a pair of headphones and leaned her head against the window while he continued to eat.

I looked out of the window and just let the thrrrump thrrrump thrrrump rhythm of the bus tires hitting the tarred patches of the highway and the humming vibrations of an engine overdue for service move up through the scarred vinyl floor, spiral up the threads of rusty bolts into the seat legs, up into the springs and cushions, where they invaded the pores of my skin, dancing over and through the sinews of muscle and tendon until finding a resonance deep in my bones. My mind cleared of anything but the mountains in the distance, their outlines hidden in the glare of the late afternoon sun. I didn’t really see the mountains, didn’t really see anything. I felt them.

Later, the man would explain how the lives of all of the passengers on the bus were forever connected, like the tunnels of invading gophers, one connected to another until it was impossible to find and eradicate them all. But I wouldn’t learn of that until later.

I was startled as the toilet door squeaked open and a boy, no older than eight or nine, turned to look at me before the door shut behind him. His seat was close to the front of the bus where the driver could keep an eye on him. His mother had hugged him tight and held back tears as she tried to load him and his robot themed backpack onto the bus in Denver. Each time she gently tried to push him to the stairs of the bus, he turned and hugged her tightly. He never screamed or cried, just hugged her with his eyes tightly closed. If he could block out all light, maybe his journey would take him to a place where the robot on his backpack was real and there were no sad goodbyes. Finally, the driver stepped down from his seat and knelt in front of the boy. He took the cap off of his head and after tousling the boy’s blond hair, pulled the cap down over the boy’s eyes. The driver nodded at the mom and then led the distracted boy onto the bus, shutting the door before he could turn back for another hug. The boy must have huddled tight against his seat, because I hadn’t seen him since and was surprised when he suddenly appeared at the toilet door. 

I turned back to the window and noticed a shadow on the gravel shoulder seemingly leading, pushing, and encouraging the bus on its journey. Wings flew over and through discarded trash, strips of blown out tire, and tumbleweeds as if nothing could get in the way of its progress. I looked up to find the source of the soaring shadow, but could see nothing but blue sky. The shadow was growing longer and less defined, and I wondered if the sun was playing tricks on me as its angle sharpened towards the beginnings of sunset in the high mountains. Maybe the bird was pulling the bus forward like its own version of a little red wagon, its beating wings barely succeeding at dragging the lumbering beast up and over the foothills.

As the sun dipped behind the mountains and the landscape turned purple, gray, and then shades of blue, it became easier to see my reflection in the mirror than the world outside, and I lost all signs of the bird.

The door to the toilet opened, and this time I saw the boy’s reflection in the window next to mine like we were standing next to each other, two brothers on an exciting journey. He paused and stared, and I willed him in my mind to just go. I felt like he expected me to say something. His blue eyes were wide and his mouth hung open as if words dripping off his tongue before he could catch them and turn them to sound. I blinked, and his mouth snapped shut. His lips upturned slightly at the corners in the hint of a smile, so quickly I afterwards wasn’t sure it actually happened. I turned to get a better look, but he was already walking back up the aisle, running his hands up and over each seat back making engine noises in his throat.

Chapter 2

The Previous Day

Isat straight backed in my office chair, the broken reclining feature forcing good posture, and stared blankly at the computer screen. The computer dinged softly, and I saw a new email appear in my inbox. I had a dual screen setup and kept email in one screen while I worked in the other. But my cursor hadn’t moved in at least thirty minutes. My cubicle was one in a long row. There were signs posted at the ends of each row like those in a library listing the portions of the alphabet or Dewey decimal system contained in that row. Pipe lines of fluorescent lights glared overhead, chasing out any semblance of shadow, giving the office a two dimensional, artificially white feel. We were allowed to decorate the walls of our cubicle within reason as long as the decor did not poke out above the chest high cubicle walls. Management felt it was important the office had a uniformed look of gray and beige to project an image of professionalism and industry. It was only after multiple clients got lost that they gave in and allowed the guide at the end of each row.

I was thinking about the conversation I had earlier with Bill, the balding overweight man in the cubicle across from mine. He had peered over the wall after I returned from a break. Hey, did you hear about the new policy?

I sighed. No, what new policy? How do you keep up with them all?

What do you mean? You have to keep up with policy! How else would you know what you can get away with? He choked and hiccupped at his perceived hilarity. Bill is the last person who would ever push the boundaries. They were just posted on the share drive, he explained.

So, you just happen to check the share drive every day for new policies? I asked, feigning surprise.

No, no, that would be a waste of time silly. I had HR put me on the email list for whenever a new one is posted, so I get notified.

I just shook my head in amazement. Who has that kind of energy? So...?

What? he asked.

I humored him. So, what does it say Bill? You came to me remember? I was bored of the conversation already, but I couldn’t bring myself to be rude either.

Oh yeah, well it’s the new rules for the break room. It spells everything out perfectly. We shouldn’t have a problem with old food in the fridge after this! He seemed jazzed by the implications of the new rule as if he had been personally wronged by bad break room behavior in the past. This is exactly what I told HR in that memo I wrote.

Great. I said and looked back at my monitor, manipulating the mouse to look busy. He saw Joan from the next cubicle over and turned his excitement to her.

I hadn’t moved since. What is wrong with me? I said to myself as I shook my head and rubbed my eyes to refocus. I clicked on the email and saw it was from my project manager. The Subject line read Project Deadlines. I felt a burn in my chest as I opened the email with trepidation. I knew I was not on track to meet our deadline to push the new software patch to our client. I just hadn’t been able to focus. Jack had been very patient with me over the past month, but I knew he couldn’t hold off the client any longer. Come see me. was all it said.

I don’t think anyone blamed me. I mean, who would? The accident was exactly five weeks ago yesterday. I know everyone was still mourning and most felt bad for me, but they all seemed to have gone back to their normal lives. I guess that is what you are supposed to do, not really pretend like it never happened, but carry on and tough it out, stiff upper lip and all that BBC bullshit. Some cultures have a mandated 30 days of mourning, but apparently, I needed longer than that. She was the life of the office, quite literally for me it seems. She was the only living person with whom I could be completely open, and she had finally convinced me that who I was, was good. I didn’t need to hide from her. I didn’t have to be alone with her.

You’re different, a voice said behind me. I swiveled around in my chair to face a woman, one of the newly hired programmers.

Excuse me? I asked, not out of rudeness, but I genuinely thought I hadn’t heard her correctly.

You’re different, she repeated, I can tell. She smiled.

Well, I uhmm, I stammered, blushing at the attention. What do you mean? I asked, never lifting my eyes from the floor. When there was no response, I looked up to find she was gone

That was the first time we ever met, well not really met, interacted I guess would be a better word. I evaluated and rehashed that conversation in mind for hours that afternoon and over the entire weekend. What did she mean? What did she know? Who was she? I couldn’t get her out of my head.

A new email came in, and I was reminded of Jack’s. I pushed my chair back and stood, returning my mind to the present. I rubbed them and blinked, trying to find focus. I stood there for a second, my mind blank, and then remembered why I had stood. I grabbed a notebook from the top of a stack of papers and checked my shirt pocket for the pen that is always there. I turned left and began the long walk to the end of the cubicle corridor where Jack sat in an almost enclosed cubicle style office.

The walls went about 75% up to the ceiling, which I guess was supposed to provide more privacy for management. But you could still hear every conversation Jack had, from counseling and disciplining employees, to phone calls with his wife. Jack had only one volume. His whisper was even loud. He never yelled, at least I had never seen it, but his voice carried. And with no wall or insulation to catch and trap his words, they were free to any available ears, whether willing or not. Many of those in cubes close to Jack wore headphones out of respect for the privacy of those he was speaking to.

When I arrived at his door, I found it mostly closed. I knocked, pushing the door open a bit further. I could see Jack sitting behind his desk typing furiously on the keyboard. He looked up and motioned for me to come in with his head while he continued to type. I turned and noticed Rachel’s headphones were off. She saw me look and she hurriedly turned away like she had been caught red handed at something. I imagine in my impending conversation with Jack, curiosity outweighed privacy.

Jack was an informal boss, so I didn’t wait for him to ask me to sit. I slumped into a chair across the desk from him and waited for him to finish. He hit the enter key with a flair and turned his full attention to me.

Chapter 3

The Present

Ijolted awake. I heard a cry escape my lips and found my heart was racing and I was almost panting for breath. The bus was quiet and dark. I looked to see if anyone had noticed my reaction. Abuela had her reading light on, but the only other illumination was from the small green running lights in the aisle. My head was pounding, and I felt pressure building behind my ear drums. I pinched closed my nose and blew gently until they popped, bringing some relief. I leaned over and rummaged through my laptop bag until I felt the round plastic bottle of ibuprofen. It took me a minute to align the arrows on the bottle and lid in the dark so I could pop the top and pour two pills into my palm. I felt the weight of the pills on my hand and decided to pour a third from the bottle for good measure. I snapped the cap back on and pulled my bottle of Coke from the seat pocket. The drink was warm and flat, but I washed down the pills with the last of it anyway. I closed my eyes and began to massage my temples.

The pain began to subside, and I looked out the window for a clue as to where we were. It was a moonless night, and I saw only shades of black whizzing by. I looked up, expecting to see stars, but again all was black. The light from the bus headlights projected a scene of forest and asphalt ahead, but even if I pushed my face against the glass, no object was lit long enough for me to make out any detail until I saw a green sign with reflective white lettering speeding towards us in the distance.

Determined to read the sign before it was lost again to the night, I held my breath as it drew nearer. The words, "Continental Divide 1 Mile," just registered before it was gone. We were close. My heart began to race again, and my stomach started its routine of somersaults and cartwheels. I made fists and my fingers stuck to my sweaty palms. One mile. This line, cresting and flowing along the spine of the Rocky Mountains, I had to cross it. For some unknown reason, it was the pull of crossing the divide that had gotten me on the bus in the first place. Like conquering the trials