The Celtic Key

by Barbara Best

  Matt stands and pads over to light the lamp on the lowboy. Colors in the room reveal themselves and the outline of his silhouette paints an alluring picture on the wall and ceiling. His presence fills the room.

  “Not quite five o’clock,” he announces with a sniff. Matt winds his timepiece, then pulls a fresh shirt out of the top drawer. His trousers were hastily draped over the back of a chair. He grabs them up.

  “That ornery ol’ rooster outside will be crowing any minute,” Jane says. Her eyes roam her husband’s frame as he plays tug-of-war with his pants. She waits patiently for his attention. “We’ll work this out. You and me.”

  Matt slowly shakes his head. “Your healing powers are no match for this colossal mental wall I must scale. It is all-consuming and I rush to conclusions unproven, unknown.”

  “Please, Matt, what do you remember?”

  “Bits and pieces. It is such a bother to share them.”

  “Go on. I’m listening.” It has been a while since Matt last spoke about it.

  “I dream a foggy conundrum, a mission to enlighten our great General Lee. I sense some unforeseen revelation that is just beyond my grasp. I was in such a sorry state when they found me, it is no wonder I remember anything at all. My cousin! That is the worst of it. Learning Francis is unaccounted for. Jane, he was traveling with me. I know it to the marrow of my being. I can see him vividly on my horse. Yet, how in God’s name did this come to be? Why?” Matt paces the small track of carpet by the bed, staring distantly at something only he can see.

  “I fear at times I will lose my mind,” he frets, running his hand over his hair in a dramatic gesture.

  Jane screens her shock at these new admissions and gives herself time to think. She folds the knitted throw blanket they keep at the foot of their bed. Matt’s recollection has reached a pinnacle. In so many words, the honeymoon’s over. The sheltered days of innocence through his fight to get better and their mutual bliss and union has arrived at an abrupt bend in the road. She is compelled to make the turn.

  Cautiously, Jane begins, “Sweetheart, do you remember your visit to Tohidu?”

  Matt freezes in mid-step, turns and crosses his arms over his chest. Intuitively, he senses something significant is about to happen and believes his wife has been holding out.

  “Yes, of course I do,” Matt says. His words are marked with a skeptical scowl. Why, he can read it on her face. “What do you know of this, wife?”

  “Please, Matt, just answer my question.”

  “Tohidu. Well now.” Matt locks his hands behind his back. “I can tell you the events that led up to your flight from Savannah and remember well Mary Marshall’s cabin hideaway.” Pausing briefly, he recounts, “A fortune-teller’s untimely death. Union spies and acts of treason. Incriminating evidence and a clever escape from Captain Tucker’s evil clutches.” Matt heaves a sigh and tilts his head, grinning hugely, “Our enchanting stroll along a woodsy path where I first professed my true affection.”

  Jane titters at the softening of his demeanor, “I know, but what else.”

  “A ring. Your Lover’s Eye.”

  “A gift from my dad,” Jane reminds, rolling her eyes.

  “Indeed. Oh, but were I the smitten gentleman whose likeness is painted in a miniature such as this.” Matt gently takes the slender hand that wears the curious ring and bends to kiss each knuckle. “The mysterious, trenchant eye of a lover doth pale in the midst of my genuine devotion.”

  Matt’s creamy words and lingering breath, warm and coaxing, send ripples of pleasure across Jane’s skin. For a second, her epochal intentions threaten to melt into a sweet pool with wanton abandon, but she quickly recovers.

  “Stop it, you know what that does to me,” Jane fusses, but her impatience does not show in her sparkling green eyes. “Listen, Matt, I have something very important to tell you. Something you already know, and with all you’ve been through, have conveniently forgotten. I know what’s eating at you. It is something we must face together.”

  Jane twists her hand from his tightened grip. The lingering trace of good humor on Matt’s face, his credulous gaze moves her deeply.

  “Tohidu,” she continues firmly. Her own memories scatter in her mind as if they wish to hide from the inevitable unveiling. “You rode to Tohidu with a serious purpose, carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. Do you remember a book? The brown leather-bound book you brought from your father’s library, and the time you spent poring over it?”

  She watches her husband’s loving smile abruptly drop off. Matt crosses his arms again and taps his mouth with one finger.

  “Matt, honey, this unforeseen revelation that torments you — you were recording future events. You were on your way to General Lee to impart historical facts. A written account of things to come.”

  Matt’s eyes grow wide, then narrow to slits. He shoots off to the fireplace to distance himself from a dark and foreboding sensation. Picking up the iron poker, blackened with soot, he jabs at the embers and turns the log to catch. Yellow-orange illuminates the room and a burning heat follows, not so much from the fire, but something more sinister and perverted. He puts one hand on the mantel, his back to her, his face hidden.

  “Please. Come sit down, my husband,” Jane says, patting the space on the bed next to her. “It’s time we talked.”

  Chapter 7

  SEA OAKS PLANTATION, 2013

  “Sea Oaks Plantation,” Bryce squints to read an approaching billboard on the side of the road as the suburban zips along.

  Pinching the tender part of his wrist to make sure he is not trapped in some lucid dreamlike-state, Bryce decides to let his feelings taste the sweetness of being back in 2013 again. Finding he’s in the vicinity where he took the key from Jane’s strange little box is a miracle, yet he is puzzled. He didn’t end up where he started this time. It is different from the portal at Fort Pulaski.

  “How far are we from the place?”

  “Not far at all, sir. A quick walk through those trees,” Kat says, indicating with her hand. “The state cut this road through our land in the 1950s. Something my family couldn’t stop, but it turned out fine. It is easier for folks to get to us.”

  “Is that so?” Bryce murmurs to himself. So what got him off the track? Did his brain short circuit, causing him to wander mindlessly in a vegetative state until he collapsed? Or did the key toss him helter-skelter like one of his drunken college buddies throwing ping-pong balls in a beer drinking game. Even more alarming, what if there had been a building erected where he materialized? What would keep his unleashed molecules from re-forming in a wall, the trunk of a tree or some other solid structure?

  As they draw closer, Bryce studies the one-dimensional likeness of a plantation oozing Tara in “Gone with the Wind.” Sight of the place brings the scene he left behind to the forefront. It is hard to believe he was in 1863 only a short while ago, tapping his foot to a lively period tune and trying to stomach the scene of a blushing bride gliding gracefully about the room as if she owned the place.

  Jane’s face was radiant with happiness. It makes his heart nearly burst with a proverbial ache of loss and confusion. How could she be so at home in her surroundings? It was like she belonged there. It was like she belonged to another time and place, in the arms of another man. Bryce cringes at the sudden unwelcome impression that gives him.

  It must be antique poisoning. Jane had been glued to her computer and craggy books for as long as he can remember. From the moment Jane’s dad gave her reign over his dominion of old relics, she had locked herself away for hours in the Peterson’s dusty attic. She surrounded herself with oxidized antiquity, and was absorbed in study and research with a purpose he never understood. He is sure it warped her mind.

  Annoyed, Bryce drops his hat onto one knee. He absently runs his fingers through the cool, oily texture of his hair that needs a good washing. The brown tones are streaked by the sun and weeks of traveling through the backcountry of Virginia, over
North and South Carolina, and finally home to Georgia. He had traveled with his unique and resourceful Cherokee friend Onacona. Onacona, White Owl was named by his family elders after his Euro-American mother shared a dream she had of a white owl with blue eyes before her son was born. White Owl saved Bryce’s life and taught him the ways of his people. He had helped him endure a world that was not his own.

  “Wow,” Bryce says dryly. “That’s some kind of billboard.” His eyes follow an arrow pointer to a brick and stone marker at a well-landscaped entrance across the road.

  “A tad overdone, don’t you think?” Kat chuckles. “It does not do Sea Oaks justice.” She always thought their gaudy sign should be more conservative and they needed a new one. Back in the ’90s, someone’s marketing efforts had gotten entirely out of hand.

  She continues as they whiz by, “We haven’t announced it yet, but the manor-house kitchen will soon reopen to the public. Hurricane Constance gave us a scare last year. Damage was mostly in the rafters, but that whole section has been off limits. The fire was big news. It even got overseas coverage. No doubt you’ve heard about it.”

  “Umm, sure,” Bryce says, playing along.

  “Sea Oaks Plantation is one of the Confederacy’s most visited historic landmarks. I imagine it’s on your list of must-sees.” Kat blinks the dryness from her eyes, alert to the dark road ahead. “Were you born in Athens, Mr. McKenzie?”

  “Let’s say I’m a Georgia boy through and through.”

  “Then, you probably know General Hopkins and his wife stayed at the Old Homestead — what is now our bed and breakfast. It is usually the first thing our guests want to hear about.”

  “General?” Bryce asks. Jane’s new husband was a Major.

  “Yes, General Matthew Henry Hopkins. He and his wife were celebrities in their day and considered Sea Oaks their home when they were not out fighting to establish our new nation. Of course, General Hopkins had the ear of our second President in the recovery and reconstruction of our Confederate States toward a peaceful independence.”

  “Unbelievable,” Bryce mumbles tightly.

  Kat ignores Mr. McKenzie’s terse responses. She has a captive audience and loves speaking on a topic so near and dear to her heart. “General Hopkins and President Lee remained fast friends throughout their lifetimes. They died only minutes apart on the anniversary of our great victory. Much like fellow patriots John Adams and Thomas Jefferson.”

  “A coincidence that has no parallel,” Kat says, imitating the narrator’s voice in a short video, which runs in hourly increments at the manor house.

  Bryce swallows hard. The commentary causes the last bite of food he woofed-down at Jane’s wedding reception to curdle like cottage cheese in the pit of his stomach.

  “You seem to know a lot.”

  “What planet are you from?” Kat jokes, her forehead creasing slightly. “We practically have this stuff drilled into our brains from the time we comprehend language.”

  “Yeah, right,” Bryce’s mind is spinning. Lee was never president, and his education is sufficient to know team Hopkins and Lee did not go down in the annals of history.

  “Naturally, Sea Oaks is a big deal for my family. It is for everyone around here. I sometimes work as a guide over the holidays when they expect large crowds. It helps me stay fresh on details and there is always something new to uncover. The restoration project is an ongoing thing, like no other. Donations come from all over, even from our sister nation France. The support is incredible.”

  Kat chatters on excitedly. “I have my own set of rooms at the Old Homestead. It is the perfect getaway for my son and me. The plantation belongs to my papa’s side of the family and will be mine one day,” she beams with pride. “People love to visit Sea Oaks, to walk the grounds where Confederate history was made.”

  Bryce squirms in his seat. “Then, your maiden name is?”

  “McIntosh. Chloe Katriona McIntosh-Logan to be exact. I am named after Captain McIntosh’s second wife. My mother insists I am the spitting image. Although, I think I favor the Captain more with my red hair and all.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Bryce blurts, his mouth falling open in utter amazement. Questions ambush him from all directions. He coughs and presses his fist to his mouth. The sound reminds him of his disease. He sucks back the urge to hack uncontrollably. Fortunately, it passes. The effect of malaria on the body is no laughing matter.

  Bryce thumps his chest a couple of times. “Excuse me.”

  “I’ve never gotten a reaction quite like that before,” Kat chuckles, and shoots the man an inquisitive glance.

  “You know what? On second thought, why don’t you let me off here.” Bryce puts his hand on the car door handle.

  “Why?”

  “I really appreciate your generosity, but it’s just too much of an imposition. You said there’s a bed and breakfast, didn’t you? I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Mind, sir? I won’t hear of it,” Kat digs in. Her foot nudges the suburban up to fifty-five.

  “Kidnapping is a crime, you know,” Bryce grumbles, and drops back in his seat. He can feel the perspiration dampen his scalp. It is usually the first sign of a relapse. The chills, a spiking headache, and exhaustion will come next.

  “Gracious me, what if something happened to you out here? I heard a panther was spotted in these parts not long ago.”

  “What, in Georgia? You’re pullin’ my leg.”

  “No, it’s true. Listen, stay with me tonight.” Kat feels a hot blush come on. “Have mercy,” she giggles awkwardly. “What I meant to say was you are welcome to the sofa in the library at my townhome.”

  It could be a glaring mistake, but Kat’s mind is made up. Stubbornness is a trait she has been counseled on numerous times by both her ex-husband and her mother. “What if I promise to take you out to Sea Oaks myself in the morning? That is, if you have time. I don’t have any appointments tomorrow, so I’m free.”

  “Are you out of your mind? You don’t know me.” Bryce is suddenly concerned for the woman’s naivety.

  “Look, Mr. McKenzie, I consider myself a good judge of character. I work with strangers most of the time in my business. You wouldn’t deny me an opportunity to do a kindness for a Southern gentleman in need, would you?” Kat pouts superficially and dips her chin.

  “Well, I could use a shower,” to wash the horse, dust and sweat off. Bryce thinks he probably smells pretty ripe. “And it would be nice to have a place to lay my head. The sofa would be great for one night. Actually, I’m short on cash at the moment. I feel like I should pay you something for your trouble.”

  “Like you were going to pay for a night at our bed and breakfast?” Kat counters sharply.

  “Got me there. I’m afraid my friend left me destitute,” Bryce murmurs, thinking about the wad of useless Confederate bills clipped together in one trouser pocket. His fingers feel for the shape of Jane’s small antique frame through the fabric in the other. Her Lincoln penny should be in there too.

  “A reenactor appearing in the night on a lonely stretch of highway with no money—”

  “And you are taking him home with you. Smart!” Bryce laughs. “Seems I am truly beholden, Miz Logan. I promise I will not overstep or take advantage. You have my word, ma’am.” He takes up Miz Logan’s gentle Southern vernacular. Apparently, the South has not evolved into the crude dialect of his variety of the year 2013.

  The woman’s style of speaking is enjoyable and fairly old-fashioned. It sounds more like where he came from. However, her feminine clothes and the cut of her hair are modern. His interest lingers on her shapely bare legs and manicured feet tucked into skimpy sandals. The wistful balm of her cologne further stirs the senses.

  Bryce refrains from his male impulse to lean closer. He sniffs, “Your cologne is nice. Ahem! Maybe that was a little too forward. Just trying to make light conversation.”

  “Relax, Mr. McKenzie, I get compliments on it all the time. It has been in our family for generat
ions. Our ladies’ fragrance, Green Rose. We sell it worldwide,” Kat says with a level of pride.

  “Our famous green roses are a carefully guarded variety grown in the rich soil of Sea Oaks. The original plantings were a gift from William Bartram to Jack McIntosh, brought over from Europe. Bartram was a famous American naturalist who studied and documented many species of flora and fauna in the 1700s. Our Green Rose Eau De Parfum has a peppery essence. It emits a flowery bouquet with an alluring hint of stimulating spice believed to have aphrodisiacal properties.”

  There is a twinkle of mirth in Kat’s eyes, “That’s from our advertising. I do love it, always have.” She is suddenly curious, “Do you think it is too strong for me?”

  “No, it’s good. I like it too.”

  Kat abruptly changes the subject. “I have to pick up my son, first. It is on the way. My mother has been a blessing with my divorce and all.”

  “Sorry to hear about your divorce.”

  “Life is full of surprises, Mr. McKenzie.”

  Bryce is jarred by the comment. Doctor Marcus Brimmer said the same thing on the road to Chancellorsville during their rush to aid the famous General Stonewall Jackson. He wonders what the good doctor is doing now, and Jackson, for that matter. He would like to think Marcus rejoined his regiment at Fort Pulaski. It is tempting to ask about Jackson. He wonders if the South’s great Civil War hero defied history. Time is rolling along at the same pace, but to a different conclusion. The future is not fixed. It has been changed, but not his memory of how it should be.

  “How far to Darien?” Bryce says, growing impatient.

  “About twenty minutes. Look, there’s a deer. How lovely.” Kat slows her vehicle and steers over the double line to pass. “Oh, look, two more. There’s a heap of wildlife out here, even wild ponies. Do you have a horse, Mr. McKenzie?”

  “A horse?” Bryce’s mind draws an image of Lucky, the horse he left behind. “I’ve ridden a few times,” he says casually, thinking of the many long days he spent in the saddle. The bones in his poor legs are probably bowed from it.