*All characters are a minimum of 18 years of age. 'Marriageable age' means at least 18 years of age.
The Stone of Idris.
Prologue:
The battle within...
It's one of those pointless, meandering, and increasingly ridiculous discussions students of psychology, philosophy, the arts, and even law, get into regularly:
If you could have just one superpower, which one would you choose? Why would you choose that power?
At least two or three students will raise the usual ill-thought-out and facetious arguments that all power corrupts and that ultimate power corrupts ultimately. Therefore no one should ever be given superpowers because they would always misuse and abuse them.
While it is true that power does corrupt, it's not for the reasons usually argued. It is not having power that corrupts. It's being able to use it unfettered, unmonitored and unchecked. This lack of control or restraint dehumanises the user.
Being human is to live a life of constant constraint and restraint. The rules of your family, the laws of the community you grow up in, the rules at school, the practices of your religion, and the regulations of your country's government are all designed to constrain and restrain our more savage impulses so that we can live together in relative harmony, peace, and safety.
Without them, we would be no better than the other predators on the savannah we evolved from.
As a Philosophy professor, I'm often asked by students to agree with them when they say that any religion or ideology is bad.
They are, but not for the reasons they all believe.
I point out that religion was invented by man (the male-gendered of the Homo sapiens species), for man, to control man. And that, indeed, anything that helps to control and moderate a man's more savage and fundamental nature is a good thing. Or were they suggesting we allow men free rein to express their natural animal savagery?
It's always interesting to watch the feminist students grapple with this concept.
But, getting back to the point.
What power would you choose?
If you believe the students, choosing the ability to fly made you a megalomaniac who wants to be above the rest of humanity. Wanting the power to flash fire people with your eyes means you were a serial killer in the making. Having the ability to control other people's minds means you were a control freak that wanted to rule the world and probably a rapist.
Then there's the power of invisibility. If you want this, you are definitely a weirdo and a rapist. Why else did you want to go sneaking about unseen? If not so that you could perve on unsuspecting women and creep into their bedrooms?
No woman would want the power of invisibility the women in the class would airily tell each other.
I'd wager at least a few did, but peer pressure is often a terrible thing.
Here's a question: What if you had access to almost limitless power? Power to do anything and everything you desired, but that this power came with stringent controls and constraints?
Maybe there was some overriding council of other super beings that monitored and moderated its members and punished those that overstepped the bounds of what was acceptable.
Or maybe the power itself had some kind of inbuilt moral control feature. Use it to save or help people, and it worked exceptionally. Use it to hurt or harm or destroy, and it would rebound back on its user and obliterate them.
Would it be safe to give that power to a human individual now?
I don't know.
I don't have superpowers. I don't even have a cape or delusions that one man, even one super type man, can change the course of history and stop humankind from destroying itself.
These stories are just more examples of American imperialism. Why else is Superman's outfit red, white and blue? Why is Wonder Woman's the same?
What I do have is a stone. It was bequeathed to me by my great-great-grandfather as his eldest living male heir.
My great-great-grandfather lived to a remarkable 136 years of age, outliving his son, grandson, and great-grandson in the process.
Why haven't you heard of him? He never visited a doctor's or hospital. It wasn't his age that killed him. He fell off the roof of his three-story mansion.
The housekeeper said he told her that he had finally unlocked the stone's ability to fly and that he was off on a surprise visit to his mistress' place because he knew she was fucking his driver.
At 136, I'm not sure there was a screw left that wasn't loose.
I was 49 years old when I received the stone.
The Idris Stone: The Power to Corrupt.
I hadn't had much to do with my great-great-grandfather over my life. My father would, begrudgingly, take me, his only son, to the family events where the traditions of the Smithson family were upheld and passed on.
I was an only child.
When I was a child, and we were on the way to these events, dad would always admonish me to stay as far from Eldrick, my great-great-grandfather, the eldest male of the clan, as I possibly could.
There were rumours that his mother was still alive and in the house's attic, but they had to be just rumours, right?
"If he tries to get you alone or give you anything, you run to me just as fast as your little legs can carry you, okay?" Dad would say.
I didn't come face to face with Eldrick until the day of my eighteenth birthday.
He arrived in a big black DeSoto and stood outside our front door on the footpath. When he was ready, he had his driver knock.
I answered. Eldrick held something in his hand against my forehead. The world swam away, and it seemed a choral chorus sang.
My mother snatched me away, "Get away from him, you disgusting old bastard," she screamed. "You cannot have him!"
I thought he must've been a gay paedophile pervert.
"He's the one!" Eldrick carped to my father when dad reached the door. "He's the one. He'll have to wait. I'm not ready yet! I'm not ready yet!"
Cackling like a loon, Eldrick capered down the footpath to the car.
"You cannot have him!" My mother screamed at him. "I'll see you dead before you get your hooks into my son!"
Eldrick looked back at her, and I was convinced that I saw a look of glee pass over his face.
"You'll be dead before morning's light, my dear," he informed her, suddenly seeming very sane. "How will you stop me?"
My mother and father paled and grabbed each other.
"No!" dad whispered in anguish.
"He's said it. You know it must be true," my mother answered despairingly.
My mother spent the night trying to give me all the advice she thought I would ever need.
My father had locked himself in his study.
Stupidly, I thought, 'If I just stay awake with her, she can't die. He won't be able to take her if I'm watching.'
My eyelids slid shut around 4.00 am. I swear they were closed for no more than a minute or two. When I opened them, she was gone.
A massive brain aneurism, they told my dad and me. There was no way of telling or stopping it or doing anything about it.
I knew Eldrick had killed her.
When dad passed, I refused to go to any more of the clan's gatherings. I didn't trust myself to not try and kill Eldrick for killing my mother.
Besides, it was 2007. Who the fuck still has extended family gatherings where old traditions are taught and handed down these days?
When Eldrick died, I didn't attend the reading of the will, either, even though there was a letter asking for me specifically.
'Fuck him,' I thought.
The reading was for precisely 1.00 pm (1300) on 'Black Friday', Friday the 13
th
of September, 2013.
At precisely that time, my great-great-grandfather's big black DeSoto pulled up at the bottom of my driveway.
I blinked because I was sure I hadn't seen it before it suddenly appeared in my driveway.
Great-great-grandad's driver got out, tipped his top hat to me, and then walked briskly up the drive.
He handed me a small yellow envelope.
"Eldrick left one last instruction for me to deliver this to you on his death, Mr Smithson," he said. "My duties are complete, and I can go to my rest now."
What the fuck did that mean?
It occurred to me that he was the same driver who had knocked on my door on my eighteenth birthday. He was old then, 31 years ago.
He got back in the car and left.
I looked down at the envelope. I almost decided to bin it and walk away.
I looked up, and the car had gone. Perplexed, I walked to the end of the drive, only about 20 metres. The DeSoto was gone, not driving away, not around the corner. It was gone.
I walked up the drive and into my home.
As I entered, still holding the envelope, Beatrice Garcia, my Filipino housekeeper, was leaving.
Beatrice was the granddaughter of my father's housekeeper. Twenty-seven years old and stunningly beautiful. She had done well in the Miss Universe, Philippines, 2012 pageant, placing inside the top ten. No offers of modelling contracts or film roles came her way afterwards, so she took up her Grandmother's offer of work and a place to stay and came to California.
"If you can't be a movie star, you can move here and marry one," Beatrice's grandmother told her.
Instead, she got stuck with me when her grandmother's knees got so bad she couldn't complete her housekeeping duties anymore.
I liked Janela, Beatrice's grandmother, a lot. She had stayed on to look after the house and I after dad had passed. I told her she had no reason to look elsewhere for work or accommodation, and that she was welcome to stay as long as she wanted.
Janela was as close to family as I had now. Dad had passed some 25 years after mum. I'd never been married, nor had I even gone close. Having her, and now her granddaughter, around the house was far better than being alone.
Beatrice and I must both have been distracted because we bumped.
Bea, as she likes to be called, is tall for a woman at almost 5 ft. 9 in. (175cm), but I am 6ft. 4 in. (193 cm). Her forehead hit my nose and broke it.
Blood gushed.
"Oh my God, Mr Muzz! I'm so sorry," Beatrice exclaimed.
She and her Grandmother always called me Mr Muzz. My name is John Murray Smithson, the same as my father's. As dad was John, I became Murray or 'Muzz'.
"Idth thokay," I tried to tell her through my broken nose.
But it wasn't. I felt light-headed and about to pass out.
I held my hands to my nose, the envelope was between my fingers and against my forehead.
"Thy with that hathn't thappenthed," I groaned.
The world swam out of focus, and a choral choir sang.
'I've got a concussion,' I thought as I drifted off.
