After the holocaust had ended and the lethal dust had settled, the survivors realized that those once called mutants or freaks had come to stay and they learned to live with one another. Mental powers much studied pre holocaust and those who possessed them largely rejected as frauds were also accepted. All could contribute to the gradual rebuilding.
Most telepaths developed their skills in early teens. While some needed help in activating their mental shield the majority instinctively activated a guard against other’s random thoughts and controlling their own broadcasting They tended to be primarily a sender or a receiver.
He was different even amongst the differences. Barely two months old An extremely powerful telepath both sender and receiver, with no shield against either. His uncontrolled mental shrieks gave such pain to unshielded minds that had the source of the pain been known the sufferers would without thought destroy him. Exposure to the random noise of all thoughts in a radius of many miles frequently sent him into convulsions
His parents dug deep and constructed a chamber beneath all the protective material they could find. While lavishing every possible care on their offspring the parents searched desperately for one like him. They knew only one as powerful as their son could help. One who had survived long enough to build a shield against the power in his head.
The parents desperate searching caused them to leave their son alone in the chamber. He did not like being alone his parents reassuring thoughts lost in the constant mental noise of others. He wanted out, he wanted to see the things he had gathered from the imperfectly shielded minds of his parents. He wanted but did not know what he wanted so doing what came naturally, he let out a mental wail. He reached up with all his might, up through the protective material that was not quite protective enough.
In the street above Jon reeled and clutched the arm of his friend. Mat, a non telepath, had a rare and completely natural mental shield but long friendship with Jon had given him some idea of what his friend was going through. It had been a good many years since Jon had been hit that hard before clamping down his shield. It seemed Jon had found the source of the compulsion that had led them to an area yet to be reclaimed. Such areas were best avoided with their dangerous crumbling buildings and feral animals. Not to mention the occasional survivor who had opted out of the community and were inclined to violence.
When his willowy frame had stopped shaking Jon indicated a pile of rubble. “There’s someone under that lot, screaming to be let out. I’ve never felt anything like it, completely uncontrolled. While you dig him out, I’ll try and trigger his shield.”
Mat although of very small stature made the old time music hall strongmen look like delicate invalids. Shifting rubble was to him a simple task. He paused in his efforts. “That’s odd. I have a feeling that this is no ordinary pile of rubble but a deliberate construction. I also have a feeling those two dogs are watching us. I hope they re not regarding us or who ever is under there as dinner.”
Jon momentarily directed his attention away from the mind below. “No I think not, I’m getting mixed messages from them. Relief that we are here but regret at an anticipated out come.”
…. As he directed his friend’s efforts Jon gradually stilled the clamour from below. His expression of concentration gave place to one of surprise then amusement.
Jon reached in to the chamber through the entrance uncovered by Mat. “Well little fellow now there are two of us. True companions.” Gently he held an ecstatically wriggling Alsatian puppy
For several years I have enjoyed meeting with fellow poets and poetry lovers every other Monday at the Bear in Wantage. There we discuss both our own work and that of other poets both well known and obscure. Many of the poems in the category Wantage Poetry Club were first presented at the Club. That category dedicated to friends in the Club contains the poems which I have not as yet published in a collection.
Copyright © 2013 by Pamela Boal. The moral right of the author has been asserted. All right reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval systems, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Please feel free to utilise my poems in your projects but do give accreditation in an appropriate manner and make a charitable donation in recognition of the fact.