The Key to Her Past

by Dabney, Blanche

  “Open the door,” he said, pushing her over to it.

  She almost stumbled but managed to keep her balance. “Quit shoving me,” she snapped.

  “Open the door.”

  “All right, grumpy.” She felt the edge of the door, finding the handle a moment later. It was locked. “How is it locked?” she asked.

  “Use the key,” he replied. “The key is the answer to all this. I realize that now.”

  She found the keyhole. With a flick of her wrist, the door unlocked. She pulled it open and walked through.

  At once something was different. Under her feet was springy, not solid. She kneeled down. Grass. Wind was blasting her in the face. Nearby was the roaring sound of the ocean crashing onto the shore somewhere.

  “What on earth?” She turned and stepped back through the door but she was no longer in the dungeon. The door opened into a small cottage. “Where are we? What happened?”

  “We are on Knife Island,” Wallace replied, appearing next to her.

  “Oh, of course we are. I should have guessed. Ghosts that come back to life and dungeon doors that open onto islands in the middle of the sea. I should have guessed. How do I get home from here?”

  “Back through the dungeon door.”

  “And where is the dungeon?”

  “About two days walk that way, if you could walk across the ocean.”

  “The ocean? Are you kidding me? What’s going on?”

  “The key unlocked the wrong door,” he said, taking her hands in his as she started to hyperventilate. “Just calm yourself a moment. Sit.”

  “Sit, of course. Sit. Why not?” She let him guide her into a chair. From where she was she could see through the cottage window.

  At first there was only darkness but then her eyes adjusted. The moon emerged from behind a cloud, further illuminating the island. The sound of the sea was very close.

  “I ken this place,” Wallace said.

  “How?” Natalie asked. “How do you know it? Have you been here before?”

  “Never.”

  “Then how do you know where we are?”

  “My favorite story is set here. The Tale of Knife Island. I ken it like I ken my own hand.”

  Natalie leaned back in her chair, rubbing her eyes, hoping that might bring her back to reality. Nothing happened. “So we’re on an island you’ve never been to and the castle is two days across the sea. Does that about cover it?”

  “Aye.”

  “And this is the Middle Ages?”

  “As you keep calling it.”

  “Then I only have one question.”

  “Which is?”

  “How on earth do I get home?”

  7

  The barefoot man sat alone at the top of the west tower. From where he was, he could see all the land he’d conquered. How long had it taken him to get to this point?

  He thought about the crisscrossing timelines, the way the future, the past, and the present had merged and turned away from each other.

  To any normal person it would have been enough to make their head explode. As it was, he had to concentrate to make sense of it all.

  Dragged back through time when all the future was laid out before him. It wouldn’t happen again.

  Three keys had come and gone. Three chances to rule the world. Somehow the puny little highlanders had outsmarted him. He refused to think about how it had happened. It wasn’t his fault. It was his old enemy trying to outsmart him.

  It wouldn’t work. This time his plan was foolproof. All he needed was the silver key. Outside the tower thunder rumbled. The world did not like to hear such dark words as he spoke. The tower shuddered. The earth was trembling. He knew why.

  “Not long,” he said out loud. A light flared in the distance. Lightning struck a tree and it then burst into flames. How much fire would there be when he had the key in his hand?

  The keys had all been forged from the same piece of silver. Each held the same power, the power to create portals in time and space. All he had to do was unlock the right door and all would be well with the world.

  He wasn’t sure why they were trying to stop him. Wasn’t this for their own good? They needed a strong leader. He could be that leader if they’d only bow down and worship him.

  What did they do instead? Try to erase him from history.

  He thought about what had happened when he was locked away. The agony of centuries trapped without release. And then all of a sudden he was free. He knew why that had happened too. It wasn’t just them who had a helping hand from time to time.

  Then just as he was getting started with his plan he was dragged back through time. The thought was enough to make his fists clench.

  He forced them to relax, getting to his feet and leaning out the window, leaning too far. He should have lost his balance. Instead, he stood, only his ankles inside, looking down at the ground below. This time, there would be no mistakes.

  He would get the key when it came back. Then he would unlock the one door that needed unlocking. And then? Well, then all hell would break loose.

  The thought made him smile. He turned just before they knocked on the door. By the time they knocked again he was pulling it open, finding himself looking into the terrified face of two of his minions. “What?” he snapped. “This better be good.”

  “You told us to tell you when the message arrived.”

  “And?”

  “It arrived.”

  “When? Why did you not come at once?”

  “We did, I swear.”

  He shoved past them, taking the stairs three at a time. The key was back. He ran across the courtyard to the keep, hardly able to contain his excitement. The key was back. The key was back.

  The words echoed around his head. This time he could not fail. It was right there and in moments it would be in his hand. The MacGregor brat had actually managed it.

  Down the stairs to the dungeon. He paused, the door was open. Why was the door open? He marched inside, his minions catching up with torches held high to illuminate the interior.

  “Where is he?” the barefoot man yelled, spinning around in the cell.

  “Perhaps he escaped,” one of them replied. It was the last thing he said. His neck was snapped a moment later. The barefoot man turned to the others. “Cursed chains that cannot be broken and he simply got out of them, unlocked the door, and left?”

  They looked at the floor, the ceiling, anything but him.

  “Well, what are you standing there for? Find him!”

  They scattered at once. He turned and kicked the chains on the floor in front of him, howling like a wolf, his head falling back, his fists pounding the walls of the dungeon. “You will not save this one,” he said out loud before darting back up the stairs.

  By the time he reached the courtyard he felt better. This made it more fun. He would have the remains of the MacCallister army out looking for Wallace MacGregor, and the woman if she’d actually made it back here with him.

  They wouldn’t get far. In many ways this made it more exciting. It was almost too easy before. Soon they would be in his clutches and he would have the key.

  The MacGregor clan would be wiped out. The MacCallisters would do his dirty work for him, glad of a chance to slaughter their rivals.

  They were strong of body but weak of mind. They also lacked strategical skills. They had been on the verge of losing the war to the MacGregors until he came along to help. He had to remain in the shadows back then, afraid that they might recognize him. He wasn’t as strong then, one defeat after another sapping his power.

  Not anymore.

  He helped the MacCallisters to victory. They got Jock in their dungeon and he got his revenge on him at last. Now all he had to do was get the key and he would have his revenge on everyone who had ever wronged him. The highlands would burn before it was all over.

  The thought of so many dying nourished him. His smile broadened. “Run as fast as you can,” he said out loud, walking
across the courtyard. “Run, Wallace. You will not get far. Soon, our game will come to an end with you sliced into pieces and me in charge of all.”

  He began laughing. Would Wallace beg for mercy before he killed him? The thought made him laugh all the more. “Run,” he said again, the laugh dying as if cut off by an arrow to the heart. Once more his face was stony. “The key will come to me all the same.”

  Beneath him the ground rumbled. He kneeled and placed his hand upon it. “Not long now,” he said quietly. Another rumble and then nothing.

  He stood up once more and then disappeared back inside the tower.

  8

  Wallace knew well enough the tale of Knife Island. It was contained within the only book in the house he had grown up in. The farm itself was little more than a shack on the edge of the village of Cromarty.

  Inside was divided into two spaces, one for the people, the other for the livestock. The animals got the better part of the deal.

  They were given fresh air in the summer and fresh straw to lie upon during the winter. Wallace got nothing of the kind. His bed was made of old reeds taken from the thatch, laid straight upon the beaten earth floor.

  During the dark nights when the wind howled outside, he had been unable to sleep. Taking the one candle that was permitted for the task, he would sit up and reach for the book.

  He had no idea how to read but the symbols and drawings that filled the pages helped to spark his imagination and distract him from his fear of the monsters that might lurk out in the winter’s night.

  As the years went by his understanding of the story grew. Occasionally his guardians, the old man Farrow and his wife, Mabel, would answer one of his questions.

  “What is this word?”

  Connecting the dots over the weeks and months he slowly learned to read. His enjoyment of the tale grew. He could connect the text and the images, using the map in the flyleaf to begin to grasp the layout of Knife Island.

  He was here for real for the first time. He had no doubt there was some powerful magic in the silver key the woman held. No doubt that was why the barefoot man wanted it. A key that could open any door and lead you through to another location, that was a tool that could be used for great good or great evil.

  He wondered if there were rules to the use of the key. Could it lead anywhere? Or only to certain locations? Was he lucky to have been sent through to Knife Island or did perhaps the key have an agenda of its own?

  He looked around him. There was Black Rock, looming up like an angry giant. To one side, the great Long Fell and the escarpment where the climax of the story had taken place. Orientating himself based on Black Rock, he recalled the layout of the island.

  “Where are we going?” Natalie asked as he began to walk without looking back.

  “To the boats,” he replied. “The hamlet of Osterley should be ahead of us.”

  “How far is it?” she asked, jogging to catch up to him.

  “No more than a mile.”

  “And you know the way?”

  “Down this valley and up the other side, then we cross through the marshland and we’re there.”

  “We go through a marsh? Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “We use stepping stones that have been there a thousand years.”

  “All this knowledge of yours comes from a story? What if you’re wrong?”

  “I’m not.” The hill started to slope away in front of them. They began the descent. Wallace strode ahead, Natalie struggling to keep up as she slipped down the rocky slope. Eventually he was forced to pause to wait for her to catch up.

  “What’s the plan?” she asked, joining him on the wide grassy floor of the valley. “When we get to the boats I mean?”

  “Row to the mainland.”

  “And then?”

  “Walk back to the castle.”

  “And then?”

  “Get you home,” he said, not mentioning the part where he would give the key to the barefoot man. He began marching again, barely slowing down as they started the climb up the far side of the valley. The grass petered out, becoming bare rocks. The only signs of natural life were a few sprigs of heather that blew in the light breeze, releasing a fragrant scent that Wallace had not smelled for a very long time.

  “And just how do you plan to do that?” She was panting for breath as she talked, the climb taking far more effort for her than for him.

  He stopped, frowning. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  “So you don’t know. How do you know I can even get home?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe you can’t.”

  “That’s great. You make a deal with me to show me around the Middle Ages in return for the silver key. I come back here and all I’ve seen so far is an island in the middle of nowhere. Now don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice island, but it’s not quite what I had in mind.”

  “Down there.” He stopped at the top of the hillside, pointing down toward a huddle of shacks by the water’s edge. From the end of them a jetty pointed out into the sea. Rocking on the choppy water, a single rowing boat called out to them.

  “We’re going to get back to the mainland in that?”

  “Aye, why not?”

  “Because we’ll capsize before we get ten feet. Have you seen the size of the waves?”

  He looked out at the sea, the white foam as water crashed into the jagged rocks that jutted out into the air as if guarding the island from what lay beyond. “Where there’s one boat, there’ll be others,” he said, starting on the long descent to the village.

  Gradually, the shacks grew larger. As they approached, Wallace saw some signs of life down there. Chickens roamed across the dirt paths, pecking at the few straggly weeds that managed to survive in the salty air.

  A fisherman was mending a net down by the water’s edge. From two of the huts smoke rose up through the thatch and a voice could be heard singing inside. “I saw some ships come sailing by, sailing by, sailing by. I saw some ships come sailing by, but my bairn was not upon them.”

  “I ken that song,” Wallace said. “It was in the book.” His stride lengthened and he was at the door of the shack in under a minute. He rapped on the wood with his knuckles.

  The song stopped and there was a scraping sound within before the door swung open and a middle aged woman leaned out, a ball of yarn in one hand and a kitten in the other. She looked surprised for a brief moment but then anger flashed across her eyes. “You interrupted play time,” she said. “This better be important.”

  “We need a boat,” Wallace said. “At once.”

  “No pleases, no thank yous?” The woman stood to one side, waving them both in. “Honestly, you’d think the next laird would be more polite to one of his own.”

  “You’re a MacGregor?” Wallace asked. “How do you ken me?”

  “I see the mark on your arm. I hear your accent. Most of all, I helped to raise you before the war and my banishment.”

  By now they were all inside and the door was closed again. The shack was dark with only one tiny window which faced out to the sea. There was just enough light for Wallace to see where she was pointing, a wooden bench by the fireplace.

  He sat with Natalie beside him. The kitten immediately hopped onto her lap and promptly curled up, purring as it went to sleep.

  “Who are you?” he asked the old woman as she put the ball of yarn away.

  “Deirdre is my name for now, not that it matters. What matters is sitting next to you.”

  He turned and looked at Natalie who was gently stroking the kitten. She glanced up at him, and then looked away. “Her?” he said, turning back to Deirdre. “What about her?”

  “She has the silver key.”

  “How do you ken that?”

  “Did you leave your brains in that dungeon. You appear at my house demanding a boat. That means you dinnae have one of your own. That means you did not row or sail to Knife Island. Unless you have wings I cannot see, that means you used the key to go through th
e door to get here. Or am I mistaken?”

  Natalie spoke up for the first time. “What is this key?”

  “It is very special,” Deirdre replied, sinking into an armchair and folding her arms across her chest. “As are you. You are a woman from the future, aren’t you?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Now listen carefully, because this is where it gets complicated. There are many futures and many pasts, some of them real, some of them little more than smoke. I have been blessed with the sight into some of those paths and so, sadly, has the barefoot man. He knows that the time of reckoning grows near. Even now his tentacles spread throughout the highlands as they did a generation ago and as they will again unless you do something about it.”

  “Me?” Natalie asked, looking confused. “What do I have to do with anything?”

  “When the MacGregors lost the war, their loss was not a fair one. The barefoot man…how can I put this? He…tweaks things. His help gave the remaining MacCallisters the power over this land but it was not a power they were ever supposed to wield. Even now, their grip on things grows slight. Soon, they will be as lost as us all unless the barefoot man can be dealt with.”

  “Who is this barefoot man?”

  “That is a question that has vexed many for a very long time. I can tell you only a little, and much of what is said of him is contradictory. He is old, very old, though he looks little older than Wallace here. He is not working alone, that much I can be sure of. He yearns for power but he has been thwarted thanks to a dash of luck and a lot of effort on the part of the MacGregors. Each defeat has made him more dangerous. He once wished to travel to the future but he does not know he is bound to this time as a dog is bound to its master. Whenever he tries to travel forward, he is pulled back. Soon he will seek a different goal.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “That doesnae matter. What matters is this. Laird MacGregor was locked up under a curse that was supposed to last forever. That key was able to break an unbreakable curse. That makes it a powerful tool in this struggle. You wield the key, that makes you a powerful tool as well. It is in your hands that the fate of our land now rests. It is up to you what happens to all of us.”