Memories
Posted: 22 Oct 2016, 19:05
Time in Canada had be good to Omar. He had come here, to escape the disgrace he suffered in Spain, and then again in Mexico. Black sheep of the family was an apt description of him. His family had wealth and power, but he was a free spirit. He did not want the 9 to 5 life. His father and uncles tried to beat it in to him, but to no avail. Only his Aba, his grandmother, understood him. She would intercede on his behalf when his father would once more try to impress his way on Omar.
His Aba told him from a young age that he was special. That Omar inherited the skill and abilities from his great grandfather who in turn could draw a direct line to the Moorish Sages, what now would be called a sorcerer. Omar never really gave her words much thought, he dismissed them as her way of making him feel special as any Aba would do for her grandchildren. It wasn’t until her death, just after he arrived in Canada, that his dismissal of her words, came back to him.
His beloved Aba, who he had unabashedly gone to for acceptance amid those that did not approve of his carefree lifestyle, had left him a trunk of items. It had been waiting for him one morning as he returned from his job at the Casino. It wasn’t a large trunk, but it held a wealth of information about his Moorish great grandfather. Tomes, journals and stacks of papers with arcane script and drawings, filled the trunk. There was even a few odd looking amulets.
For a month, Omar had ignored the trunk and papers. But during one of his early morning escapades, he had been shot. A graze really, but enough to cause quite a bit of discomfort when playing the guitar, which was his job. A job he needed, for cover, should anyone try to link him to the rash of break ins and car thefts. He worked late evenings, it would the perfect cover should he be stopped and questioned.
Being shot, it was more imperative for him to show up at work like nothing was wrong, to protect his cover. Omar closed his eyes and focused on his arm. He was going to put mind over matter.. In this case.. Body. He focused with undivided intensity, sure that he could succeed. When exhaustion, finally claimed him, he slept soundlessly for hours, awakening to find his wound was gone. Wondering at first if he dreamed the wound, he checked the shirt that he had worn the previous evening and found the tell tale bullet hole. Thus his studies into the journals his Aba left him began.
His Aba told him from a young age that he was special. That Omar inherited the skill and abilities from his great grandfather who in turn could draw a direct line to the Moorish Sages, what now would be called a sorcerer. Omar never really gave her words much thought, he dismissed them as her way of making him feel special as any Aba would do for her grandchildren. It wasn’t until her death, just after he arrived in Canada, that his dismissal of her words, came back to him.
His beloved Aba, who he had unabashedly gone to for acceptance amid those that did not approve of his carefree lifestyle, had left him a trunk of items. It had been waiting for him one morning as he returned from his job at the Casino. It wasn’t a large trunk, but it held a wealth of information about his Moorish great grandfather. Tomes, journals and stacks of papers with arcane script and drawings, filled the trunk. There was even a few odd looking amulets.
For a month, Omar had ignored the trunk and papers. But during one of his early morning escapades, he had been shot. A graze really, but enough to cause quite a bit of discomfort when playing the guitar, which was his job. A job he needed, for cover, should anyone try to link him to the rash of break ins and car thefts. He worked late evenings, it would the perfect cover should he be stopped and questioned.
Being shot, it was more imperative for him to show up at work like nothing was wrong, to protect his cover. Omar closed his eyes and focused on his arm. He was going to put mind over matter.. In this case.. Body. He focused with undivided intensity, sure that he could succeed. When exhaustion, finally claimed him, he slept soundlessly for hours, awakening to find his wound was gone. Wondering at first if he dreamed the wound, he checked the shirt that he had worn the previous evening and found the tell tale bullet hole. Thus his studies into the journals his Aba left him began.