The Celtic Key

by Barbara Best

  “I should show you our stables at Sea Oaks. They are compared to the grand stables at the Palace of Versailles in France. A smaller version, of course, but just as elaborate. We also have an elite equestrian academy. Our horses are beautiful and a highlight for visitors. They are always amazed.”

  Bryce makes an occasional ‘mm-hmm’ sound to show he is listening, when, in fact, a day of sightseeing is the last thing he wants to do. There is way too much for him to explore. He has no idea where he stands in this slice of time. Then, there is his disease, the reason why Jane gave up her key and he is here in the first place.

  “Do you mind if I make a call?” he asks, hoping it is not a mistake to bring it up a second time.

  “Not at all, but only within our Southern states.”

  “Got it,” Bryce scowls. Not that again. “My calls are in Georgia. My family,” he assures, and puts out his hand.

  “You mean now?” Kat is surprised. The man is expecting her phone. “We can’t use our phones in a moving car. You know that, silly.”

  “Oh yeah, I can wait,” Bryce sputters. What, passengers too? That’s a new one.

  “You are tired, sir. Nothing a hot shower and rest won’t take care of. When we get to my place, I will have Lacy set out some of my ex-husband’s clothes. He left a few things behind. You are welcome to them. They look to be about your size.”

  “That would be fantastic. Who’s Lacy?”

  “One of our family’s live-in housekeepers and, under the circumstances, our chaperone for the night,” Kat emphasizes, then gives a naughty snicker. “Why, it would be totally unacceptable for a strange man to stay with a single woman unattended. I am pushing the limits as it is.”

  A side of Kat wants to enjoy a social blunder, but her tone takes a somber swivel. “I consider myself a modern girl and have been known to test boundaries on occasion. So far, though, I have managed to maintain a rather blemish-free reputation. I intend on keeping it that way.”

  “Certainly,” Bryce winces and glances over. The woman is being totally serious. “By any chance, would you be willing to ditch at least one formality and call me Bryce?”

  “Sorry, Mr. McKenzie, it is a little early for such things. Let’s give it time, shall we?” Kat says. The man probably means well and appreciates her kindness, but there is a code to society that she respects and would never breach. Any compromise of her character could mean ruination. It is the checks and balances on public behavior that steer the social norm and promote acceptable decorum.

  Chapter 8

  EN UNE MINUTE

  They roll down a tranquil, tree-lined street and Kat cuts a sharp right into a narrow driveway. The rear wheel of the large suburban catches one edge of the curbing.

  “Oops, sorry, I hit that every time,” she shrugs. “Do you mind waiting? My mother would have a hissy fit if she knew I picked up a stranger on my way home.”

  “And, she should,” Bryce supports. “You’re sure you’re okay about all this? You can still change your mind anytime.”

  “We have already discussed that, Mr. McKenzie.” She cracks the front and back windows. “I’ll be back en une minute.” An accomplished French accent completes her sentence. As Kat starts up the walk that leads to a two story Victorian-style home, she abruptly makes an about-face, rummaging through her purse on the return trip.

  “Forget something?” Bryce whispers.

  “Here’s something to do,” Kat grins, and slips her phone through the opening in the passenger window. “I shan’t be long.”

  “Thanks.” Bryce happily takes the phone. He is satisfied the dark window tint will hide his presence from passersby or anyone who might be peeking out a house window. The property is overgrown with plantings. Large camellia shrubs with pink flowers line the drive and give him sufficient cover.

  The many wise lessons of White Owl are ingrained in his brain. It has heightened his awareness and helped him better understand his surroundings.

  White Owl dispelled many of Bryce’s general impressions of 19th Century Native Americans. He remembers his friend saying, “Nature is like an author’s manuscript, being written and rewritten each day.” White Owl was educated by his Euro-American mother. He often talked about books, the war, and political topics of his time. He also took great care in teaching Bryce the skills of survival, the clever art of tracking, and how to swiftly and efficiently move through the wilds, making his spirit one with nature. Things that can be an asset even now.

  Holding the phone low in his lap to keep light from illuminating his face, Bryce searches the screen for the phone icon. The palms of his hands are damp and he rubs each one on his pants and takes a shaky breath. His sudden appearance will be a tremendous blow to his folks. They must think he’s dead. Not having the faintest idea of what to say, he taps in the number. It rings several times, then switches to an automated message.

  “The number you have dialed is not in service at this time. Please try again.”

  “Wait a second.” Bryce straightens his back and checks the screen. The digits are correct. He tries the McKenzie home number again and gets the same message. Maybe his mom’s cell? The adrenaline in his body amps up. No luck, that number is out of order too.

  Bryce glances out the window for any sign of Miz Logan and her son. Going quickly to ‘search’, he types in his dad’s name. Only two Clay McKenzie’s appear and none with the middle name Britius, the ancient Celtic version of Bryce. It is highly unlikely they would move. His family and just about everyone they know are in Vidalia, Georgia. A deep quiver runs through Bryce’s body, a sickening warning of his illness.

  He immediately drops the phone into a slot on the console and tries desperately to fight off a sudden fit of coughing. He grips the armrest on the car door as the illness ensues with a punishing vengeance.

  Yanking his shirt to his face, Bryce’s body goes ballistic and he can do nothing to help it. The coughing makes his lungs burn and his head explode with pain. He can feel the swell of pressure, causing his ears to ring and eyes to water. He buries his nose and mouth deeper into fistfuls of fabric, and holds on. Hopelessly lost in the racking spasms, he prays he will not be found out. Malaria is not contagious, but the symptoms are scary. He is sure it would upset Miz Logan and her son.

  Slowly the coughing subsides as it always does, leaving him wasted. He crosses his arms tightly over his chest and slumps down in the leather seat. “Thank God,” he moans as he searches for any movement outside.

  The constant chirp of crickets invades the night’s gentle peace and lulls him into a dull state of exhaustion. Light, coming from shutter-trimmed windows of a house that must have been spectacular in its day, puts off a rich golden hue. Nestled between two massive oaks, ivy grows wild on its appointed host. Its finger-like roots have firmly embedded in a wall of weathered brick and mortar up the side of a substantial chimney reaching high above the second floor. In fact, there are two chimneys. The other sprouts from the opposite end of a sloping roofline dressed with jutting dormers. He imagines at the back of the property there was a stable once, which has long since been converted into a garage.

  “Worn and tired old place,” Bryce yawns, cautiously testing the effect of fresh air in his lungs and trying to detect the slightest tickle. Satisfied the vicious spell has passed, his eyelids grow heavy.

  The opening of a car door startles Bryce awake and he bolts upright.

  The noisy chatter of a boy, telling his mother about his day with MiMi, fills the compartment as his mother buckles him safely into his seat.

  “Hush now, Wyatt. This is Mr. McKenzie. He is going to school to be a doctor. We have invited him to stay with us,” Kat says. She leans close to her son’s ear and whispers, “No French,” then playfully tousles his crop of strawberry-blonde hair.

  Wyatt nods. “Do I call him Doctor or Mr. McKenzie?” he asks with the innocence of youth.

  “You can call me anything you like,” Bryce interrupts, twisting in his seat so the boy ca
n see his face.

  “Mr. McKenzie, son, to show proper respect,” Kat insists with a mother’s authority.

  “Mister it is,” Bryce grins. “Your mother has been kind enough to offer me a place to stay. It is just for one night. I hope you don’t mind, sir.”

  Wyatt brightens at being addressed as a grown-up. “No, Mr. McKenzie, I don’t mind at all. It is nice to meet you, sir.”

  “Likewise.”

  The driver’s side door opens and Kat climbs in. “Sorry it took so long. My mother has a knack for long, drawn out conversations. She can talk-up a blue streak, if you let her.” She starts the suburban. “You dozed off.”

  “I did.”

  “Well, we’ll be home soon and Lacy can help get you comfy in no time. You need a good night’s sleep. We all do. I had a particularly arduous day, myself.” Kat recalls the long wait between appointments. The monotony can leave her more drained than when she is rushing around all day like a chicken with its head cut off.

  “Excuse me, maman?”

  “Yes, Wyatt.”

  “Is it okay if I play some games?”

  “Certainly, sweetie.” Kat reaches under the driver’s seat and hands a tablet computer to her son. “Use your earbuds and keep the volume down, please. I don’t want your hearing damaged.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How old is he?” Bryce asks.

  “Wyatt is six.” Kat watches the console’s reverse display as she backs out of the driveway. “Six going on sixteen,” she chuckles.

  “He makes a great first impression,” Bryce says, when he is thinking, is this kid for real? The boy is not like the kids he knows who are endlessly challenging limits. Now that he has lived and observed history, he feels it is not so much that kids have changed, but more than likely the world they live in. Pressures put on them by modern-day society cause the danger in their behavior, language, values and morals.

  “That is always nice to hear. He’s been through a lot lately.” Kat darts a worried look at her son in the rearview mirror. Wyatt is glued to his game, his little face set in a frown of intense concentration. Since his father’s recent move to Atlanta, the little guy has become way too solemn. She misses his typical fun-loving nature. Maybe it is time for both of them to spend a few days at Sea Oaks. The real estate business has slowed after a hectic summer and she has done pretty well for herself.

  “He seems like a really good kid.”

  “Thanks, Mr. McKenzie. He is a strong boy. His maman is very proud of him.”

  Chapter 9

  MOTHER AFRICA

  “Nice car.” Sophie tilts her head amiably, before she hops into her seat. Noticing the Audi emblem, she suspects Segi has done very well for himself.

  “Yes, yes,” Masegi says, “We must go.” After closing the passenger door, he tips the petrol pump attendant dressed in a Shell company uniform. He scans the area another time before climbing behind the wheel.

  “Embassy Consulate, right? The face of the United States government,” Sophie quotes. It is something she read somewhere.

  “Chief of Diplomatic Security,” Masegi mutters, and starts the car.

  To Sophie’s ear, Segi’s tone has made a subtle shift from serious to dead serious. Surely this is an unexpected inconvenience, a disturbing blip in his plans for the day. Perhaps he is annoyed or even worse, scared. She is reluctant to bring this to his attention, to question.

  Since Ben shoved her into action at the hospital, Sophie’s brain has been in preservation mode. It has performed a phenomenal job of staying patient and focused on the here and now. The more distance she can put between herself and Salva, the better. There will be plenty of time to worry and regret, to sweat the frightening details and anguish over leaving her husband behind and in danger.

  Segi’s car throws up a flurry of dust as they pull away from the petrol station. Sophie had made a beeline to the toilet and is feeling more comfortable. Her need for bathroom breaks has notched up, along with her appetite. The mild pressure in her lower abdomen is familiar.

  With the hum of a high-powered engine and reassurance of Segi behind the wheel, Sophie rests her head back on the plush leather seat. She tries to relax by watching the familiar scenes of an ancient continent pass by her window. Music drifts through speakers of a superior sound system. It beats a soothing tribal rhythm that lulls her like a gentle heartbeat.

  Sophie remembers her childhood impressions of family visits to the Cape Town region. Its progressive energy, natural beauty, and colorful geometric and floral motifs come to life in the harsh South African sunlight. Reds, greens, blues, and yellows dazzle the senses. Clashing hues that are portrayed in the South African flag — a celebration of blood, sweat and slavery.

  Long ago, Segi had explained black stood for the shades of a colorful people, red for the violence that led to freedom, white for their colonial and apartheid past, and green and blue for the magnificent land and ocean. Sophie thinks yellow represents the sun that rises and sets in a blue sky so pale it looks bleached out by ultraviolet rays.

  Leaving the fringes of a thriving city behind and traveling to higher elevations of quiet rolling hills, the landscape is subdued by the gritty reality of an ancient culture. Old storefronts along the roadside have painted graffiti, scuffed away by weather and time. Smooth white houses and mud dwellings with thatched roofs form traditional shapes. Patchy vineyards and walls made of stone mark subtle boundaries. Along the way, there are signs of missing luxuries, of a diverse and proud civilization that has proven its strength and longevity. It is a complex mixture of new and old, the fragile coexistence of modern populations with the original hunter-gatherers, the Bushmen of Alkebulan, the Garden of Eden. It is the birthplace of humanity, Mother Africa.

  Sandy surfaces, large rock formations, and burnt orange-red clay stain yet another layer into the fabric of an earthy canvas. From cracked, depleted soil springs brown grasses, blue-green brush, cacti and other pointy succulents. An occasional funnel-cloud swirls and settles in a gray haze that blankets the ground and coats laundry strung on clotheslines in plain view. Trees with twisted, thorny trunks spread their classic canopies skyward. Indigenous palms sprout in random places, untamed and wild. The earth and all living things wait for a quick-passing storm and the therapeutic patter of subtropical moisture. Farther north the equator slices the vast land of Africa in half, making summer like winter and winter like summer.

  “Are you hungry?”

  Startled, Sophie jolts upright in her seat. “I fell asleep,” she croaks, rubbing her arm that had baked in the sun coming through her passenger window.

  In all the madness, her body found a way to completely shut itself off. It is hard to believe pure, unfeigned rest, which had been so elusive during her time on Gough Island, can come on so easily. She wonders if she is deficient in iron. Surely that creepy doctor the Salva people raved about would have mentioned a problem after all the blood work they did on her. She abruptly brushes off the frightening memory of losing her first baby.

  “Are you all right, my Blommie Kabouter?”

  “Lord, Segi, haven’t you noticed I’m all grown up? Calling me your ‘flower fairy’ was cute when I was little, but it feels a little weird now. Besides, the pronunciation of the first word, blow-me, is not the most flattering expression in some languages.”

  Masegi chortles loudly, “Ah, well then, Sophia it is.”

  “Wrong. It’s Sophie these days. Just Sophie. Ben calls me Sophie. I dropped the formal after my divorce. You know, failed first marriage, new brand.”

  “I have awakened a sleeping lion.” Masegi says with warm humor. “You are restless.”

  “No kidding. How much longer?”

  “It all depends on the roads. There is one more stop to make. We will be there soon.”

  “C’mon! Where is there? I know we are headed west. I can read the signs.”

  “I have a place. It is where I go for solitude. My privacy is essential to me.”


  “That’s right, you said you’re on vacation from work. I picked a bad time, huh?”

  “It all depends on how you look at it, Blo . . . uh, Sophie.”

  Sophie touches Segi’s arm, “Thanks,” she smiles. “I guess I am sort of hangry at the moment.”

  “Hangry?”

  “That’s both hungry and angry at the same time. It’s something Ben says.”

  “Your husband.”

  “Yes, a lot has happened since you last saw me. Anyway, thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For everything. Don’t you want to hear even a smidgen of my sordid tale? It worries me you are risking your neck and don’t even know why.”

  “I know enough,” Masegi says, and checks his mirrors again. “You are feeding two, yeah?”

  “What?” Sophie folds her arms protectively. She is not sure she wants anyone to know about her condition. She learned a hard lesson last time.

  It was just too difficult to share the news she had lost a child. How do bereaved parents answer encouragements like, “Everything happens for a reason. You have plenty of time. You can always try again, right?” When the doctors told her and Ben the chances of having another baby were slim-to-none, the pain was unbearable, a total nightmare.

  Sophie’s brows crinkle. “How did you guess?”

  Masegi glances over and laughs. The hearty sound rumbles from his belly and is not meant to hurt. He grins, “It is not a guess, young woman.”

  At the next exit, Masegi’s slows his Audi and veers to the left.

  Chapter 10

  SMOKY AROMA

  The warm, domestic scene is injected with the pulsing hum of electricity that drifts lightly on the fringes of hearing capacity. It’s strange, Bryce had never noticed the thick disturbance of natural quiet before. The low-pitched din and vibrations, the modern-day auditory phenomenon of appliances that run throughout a house.