Michael Devaney
The Elisha Pool
DEDICATION
To my daughter, Emaleigh — If only Elisha Pools were real.
Definition:
Elisha Pool — Naturally occurring regenerative waters containing magical properties capable of renewing health, slowing the aging process and, in rare instances, restoring life.
Prologue
The date is September 1. Besides the significance of ushering in a new month on the calendar, it’s also Riley Stephenson’s birthday. After ninety trips around the sun, and quite literally living the proverbial “life of Riley,” he only wanted one thing — more time.
At 12:05 pm he was lounging in his favorite recliner dozing in and out of consciousness when the doorbell rang.
“Who could that be,” he mumbled. He wasn’t expecting company.
The doorbell rang once more before he could escape the confining clutches of the recliner. When he finally made it to the door a Federal Express delivery man, carrying a small package under this arm, was already halfway back to his truck.
When Mr. Stephenson opened the door the delivery man did an about-face and smiled. “Good afternoon,” Fed Ex said. “I have a package here for a Mr. Riley Stephenson.”
Mr. Stephenson furrowed his brow. “A package for me?” he said, as much a statement as a question.
“Yes, sir. If you’re Mr. Stephenson, that is. Just sign here, please.” The delivery man said, quickly closing the gap while holding out his clipboard.”
Mr. Stephenson adjusted his glasses and scribbled his name at the bottom of the page to accept the package.
“Whatever’s in there must be important,” The Fed Ex man said. “It was sent from overseas.”
Mr. Stephenson nodded, then turned and went back inside without a word.
He returned to his recliner where he retrieved a round magnifying glass from a drawer in the end table beside the chair. Carefully holding the glass above the label stuck to the corner of the package his eyes focused on the sender’s name and address:
Colonel George Brewer
Laburnam Villa, England
His eyes widened and his spirit lifted. Colonel Brewer was one of Mr. Stephenson’s long-time friends. They’d made acquaintance in India during one of Riley’s many adventurous travels and had kept in contact for many years via pen pal letters; a system they also used to engage in months long games of chess.
“Why, it’s a gift from my old friend Colonel Brewer!” Riley declared.
Without delay Mr. Stephenson exchanged the magnifying glass for a pair of scissors from the end table drawer and went to work opening the box. After considerable effort, he managed to break through the packing tape and open the package’s flaps. Buried underneath two layers of bubble wrap was a handwritten letter from the Colonel. When Mr. Stephenson picked up the letter he saw a small, three-inch long by three-inch wide object wrapped in newspaper.
Focusing his attention back at the letter he read:
Dear Friend,
Greetings from my beloved England.
Riley could almost hear the Colonel’s English accent as he read.
I hope this letter finds you well and happy. I’m writing you first of all to wish you a happy birthday. Attaining the age of Ninety years at the pace you ran the race of life is quite a feat. Congratulations my remarkable friend. And secondly to thank you for so many memories from the adventures we’ve shared over the years. As a token of my most sincere appreciation I offer you a gift that I picked up from an old Fakir I ran across during my last trip to India.
According to legend, this gift has had a spell cast on it that allows its owner three wishes. Now, before you wonder about my senility, let me assure you that I am still in full control of my faculties. Whether by coincidence or real magic I have seen first-hand that the legend is indeed true, for I have put it to the test. Perhaps you can find better use of your wishes than I, as my foolish use of them has brought me nothing but misery and misfortune.
Therefore my dear friend, I implore you to use your wishes carefully as I would be entirely distraught to find out later that my gift had transferred more bad luck onto you.
Your most esteemed friend and colleague,
Colonel George Brewer
Mr. Stephenson paused a few moments to let the details of the letter sink in then sat the letter on top of the end table beside him. Next, he reached down into the box to retrieve the small gift from the bottom of the Fed Ex box and carefully peeled away the newspaper wrapping.
When he removed the final sheet he discovered a tiny, mummified monkey’s paw. He was so taken aback by such a strange gift that he held the paw up to the light and turned it over several times wanting to inspect it from every angle. When he was done, he held the paw in front of him for several minutes and stared, only he wasn’t staring, he was thinking.
Finally, after an hour of quiet contemplation he raised the paw skyward and made a wish.
That same night, around midnight, a newly hired co-ed team of agents working for the clandestine organization known as, The Powers Group, received urgent messages ordering them to report to their Director’s office immediately.
Less than two hours later the agents were sitting alone in the office nervously waiting for information.
“Thank you both for responding so quickly,” the Director said, entering the room through the open behind them. “I apologize for the inconvenience without clarification, but once I explain our position I think you’ll understand the need for urgency.”
The agents exchanged quick, speculative glances then responded simultaneously. “No problem, sir.”
“Earlier today,” the Director continued, “I received a call, an assignment, of the utmost importance asking that we retrieve a dangerous artifact capable of manipulating fate. This well-known artifact is particularly popular within the literary community but is believed to be strictly fictional. The Powers Group knows otherwise. That said, I report to you that the Monkey’s Paw has finally resurfaced.”
In the middle of the Amazon jungle, a secluded pool of water glistens tranquilly in the afternoon sun.
Off in the distance, two weary tribal hunters, both dressed in loin cloths and equipped only with spears, are parched with thirst from hours of arduously roaming the jungle terrain in search of meat for their village. As the hunters pick their way through the jungle, they pass by the inviting oasis.
Upon reaching the pool, they drop their spears, bend on their knees and eagerly scoop double handfuls of water into their mouths. Within seconds of swallowing, their energy levels are miraculously rejuvenated.
The next day at dawn, the hunters lead their village chief, accompanied by a dozen fierce warriors, back to the site of the pool.
That same tribe has dutifully stood guard over those magical waters ever since.
Chapter 1
Finnegan Winters and Andria Walker — The Powers Group’s latest recruits — were each awakened in the middle of the night by a cell phone call summoning them to downtown Boston for an urgent meeting. They both arrived within the hour and now sat side by side staring in disbelief at their Director, Andrew Game.
Finnegan, or “Finn” as he is most commonly referred, broke the silence. “What do you mean the Monkey’s Paw has resurfaced?” he asked.