Aurora (A Statera Novelette)

Aurora - The Dawn of Light

A million memories can dance before the blink of an eye in the face of death. A million memories are doing just that. But the memories aren't only mine. There are more... so many more. But somehow, they are my memories. At least, they've been passed on to me.

I hadn't known about them. They've been buried deep inside me. Lost clues, waiting to be found. The last few days have brought some of them crashing to the surface, throwing my life into an uproar. But now, as I stare into the empty eyes of my biggest fear, I remember them all in the blink of an eye.

I remember back to what brought me here, to face this true evil...

One week earlier...

No one had ever explained to me what turbulence was before I boarded this flying deathtrap. And now, here I sit gripping the handles of my seat for dear life whilst casting an eyeball at the airliner pamphlet labeled Super Douglas DC-3, wondering how anything that bumps around the sky this much could be called super.

"Please... seats... squalls ahead...may... bit bumpy..." the pilot's muffled voice can barely be heard over the roaring engines and thunder, as the storm we've flown into rages on.

The petite stewardess who was kind enough to bring me some champagne during takeoff is now doing her best to calm the other passengers. Something crashes behind me and I squeeze my eyes closed, preparing for the worst.

I can't believe I wore my best dress for this!

"Excuse me, miss?" The older gentleman to my right gently taps my arm, interrupting my thoughts.

I peek at him out of one eye, afraid to open the other.

"Miss, trying bending forward with your head down to breath. It may help." His eyes wrinkle up with his smile.

Behind him, through the square window, a bolt of lightning flashes frighteningly close to the right wing of the aircraft. Seizing up in fear, I bend forward so violently, I would've flipped right out of my seat if it weren't for the belt across my lap.

"Whoa there," the gent next to me says in reaction, reaching over to steady me by my arm. "Fret not, my dear. Things could be worse. Have you ever flown in a Ford Tri-motor? Not nearly as smooth of a ride. I assure you, this Dougie will get us to Paris safe and sound."

I sit up with a deep breath, grateful for the conversation as a distraction, even if I have no idea what he's talking about. "Thank you. Mister...?"

"Augustine, madam. Uriel Augustine," he introduces himself, reaching for my hand in greeting.

Even before his hand touches mine, I draw in a sharp breath. There's a popular saying in France which literally translates to "already seen." The premise of the phrase being that something catches one's attention due to the feeling of having just experienced something similar or connected. They call it Déjà vu.

It's most certainly what I'm feeling as the gent's warm hand grasps mine in greeting. I can't help but share the phenomenon with him.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, sir, but your name sent chills right down my spine!" I exclaim. When the man's forehead wrinkles up above his frown, I realize I've done a poor job explaining myself, so I give it another go. "It's just so extraordinary. You see, I'm traveling from London on a mission that just so happens to be connected with your name."

The old man's eyes grow round to dwarf his spectacles. "My name?"

I race to explain a little better before he labels me insane. "My apologies, Mr. Augustine. I'm doing a terrible job of clarifying. Let me start over. I'm an Art Historian for the National Gallery, Ms. Sinclair. Pleased to meet your acquaintance."