The telling - by Hajara Muhammed-Sadiq

It had been passed on for generations. From Parent to child. Brother to sister. Stranger to stranger. Living to dead. It had nothing to do with blood or family but everything to do with trust and loyalty. Submission to this gift was the hardest part. One had to accept it's existence and willingness to invite it was needed. I received this gift from my sister. I remember her calling it " the telling".When I was little, my sister would read me medieval time stories of the heroic men and women that posessed "the telling". I thought that was all it was. A story. These men and women had abilities that could onlybe imagined by fake illusionists or magicians. The telling gave the ability to read minds, premonition and foretelling, past retelling, telepathy and telekinesis, levitation, the ability to create fire, incredible strength and most importantly immortality. The telling could only be passed from one person to another of choice. This power could not beabused and so it was vital to ensure that the person who possessed it had good intent.My sister had been the best of me. She once said she was given the telling by an old manshe'd met on the streets. This man looked wretched and poor. He hadn't any shoes, his clothes had been ripped up. He reeked of dead fish and spoilt food. And his wrinkles stretched all over his face distastefully. Shestared at his empty bowl and placed some money in it. The old man was overwhelmed with gratitude and promised her a gift. My sister had noticed her abilities after a few days. At first she was terrified of what she could do. She traced her way back to the old man but saw he was nowhere to be found.The children around let her know he passed away. It would be not long after she discovered that the telling was both a blessing and a curse.Everyone who possessed it experienced a drain of power. The strongest people lived up to three hundred years if they reserved the urge to use it. The weakest, lost their sanityalong with their life. My sister was amongst the weakest. Her last days on earth were the most dreadful. It was almost like she had lost a part of her soul. I missed her. I needed her. I wanted her back. The telling could help. I knew it. If it could take life, it could surely bring it back. I sat beside her grave and stared at her headstone "Emilia Fox. Beloved daughter andsister". I focused on the sand that covered her. I would bring her back. After hours of sitting and meditating, I knew things would not work out as I hoped. .The telling could do many things but not resurrection. I slowly stood up to walk away but something stopped me. I felt the ground shift beneath me. An arm poked it way out of the ground. It was shrill, lacking life. Yet, still alive. The telling had worked. Excitement flew through me. I brought my sister back. It worked. When my vision became hazy and my legs became weak, I knew something was wrong. I fell onto the ground right beside the body that had now began to crawl out of thegrave. Our eyes met, my sister and i. Hers had hope and mine had relief. Hers were brimming, mine became dim, waning, crossing over to the other side. Just before my eyes shut and my heart stopped beating. I knew I had done it. The telling had worked just as I had predicted but it came at a price. A life for a life.

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