The Celtic Key

by Barbara Best

  Her shoulders slump at Matt’s stupefied expression. Her gaze falls to her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry. How could I tell you all this when you were so ill and just beginning to get better?”

  “You didn’t save the key for yourself?” Matt’s voice trembles slightly. He immediately has mixed emotions.

  “What would I do with it? Leave here? What a ridiculous idea? Why, the evil thing made me more sure than ever my place is with you. I was terrified to touch it. Believe me, if Bryce hadn’t turned up, both the key and its box would have been returned to Captain and hopefully to the attic where it came from.”

  Jane’s old frustrations percolate to the surface, “Your memory has been a real challenge. For a while I thought your amnesia was permanent. That we could start our lives with a clean slate, without all the hocus-pocus. A crazy dream, I guess.”

  Matt crosses his arms and rocks on his heels. “Hmm . . . a slight change in events,” he repeats Jane’s earlier statement.

  He is eager to tackle immediate matters of importance, and threads Jane’s story into reasonable order with the skill of an officer and adjutant. Matt has a clear eye to judge the gravity of any situation and a swift hand to do what is necessary. To ease his restlessness, he pokes his head through the opening of a clean white shirt and tucks the tails into his trousers. Buttoning the fly over narrow hips, he draws his suspenders over broad shoulders before turning his concentration again on his wife.

  Jane knows his morning routine well. Next, he will pull on his socks and thrust his feet into his tall military-style boots. She makes to rise, but Matt stays her with a sweep of his hand.

  “Please, indulge me further. What events exactly?”

  “Well, when Bryce was thrust into this time he restored General Jackson’s chance at living. He’s studying to be a doctor and applied his medical expertise, which in the 21st Century is far beyond anything you can imagine.”

  “Stonewall Jackson.”

  “Yup, one and the same,” Jane coughs and clears her throat. “Can I at least have some water?”

  She waits for a glass to be poured and brought to her. “Thank you,” she huffs. The water has been boiled, as she has prescribed for all drinking water on the plantation. It is from a well, but because they live so close to the river she worries about contamination caused by Confederate soldiers with unclean habits. There is a permanent military camp upriver to protect the coast and town of Darien from another surprise enemy attack. Jane takes a couple of sips and peers over the rim.

  They both turn toward a timid knock on their bedroom door.

  “Not now,” Matt barks, remaining focused on his wife. He forms the persona of a military man engaged in critical intelligence gathering, or perhaps preparing to address the troops.

  “Matt, Stonewall Jackson was supposed to die at Chancellorsville. His wounds were mortal. General Lee should have lost his best tactical general and ally that fateful day. Some historians deem that with him went any chance the Army of Northern Virginia might have had for victory. The medical team without Bryce’s interference would have tried to save Jackson’s life, but they were flying blind. Medicine is still in the dark ages.”

  “In the future, the consequences of his death are noted?”

  “Uh-huh, fully debated. Those who understand Stonewall’s military genius will entertain the what-ifs over the decades. When Bryce arrived last April — at the same place I arrived, through a portal at Fort Pulaski — he was found out and taken against his will to Virginia on a mission to save the general. Of course, we know what happened as a result. Jackson lived to fight another day. Even now, it is obvious the tides of war have turned in our favor.”

  “Then, the general was meant for the Grim Reaper,” Matt’s arms drop to his side. “This is absolutely stunning. I am perplexed, yet appalled. Who is responsible for such cruel deception? What plays at the root of these malicious acts? Surely you, my darling innocent, are a victim. For I will never, to my dying breath, be convinced otherwise.”

  Jane smiles at her husband’s outpouring of sentiment and slowly expels the air from her lungs. “I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”

  With Matt, there is a stanch tenacity, an unquestionable aversion to stand by her no matter what and defend her at all cost. His own mother, Anna, has alluded to her son’s boundless devotion.

  “I wish I could say who or what is behind this. Bryce doesn’t understand it either. Although he said something about Explorers.”

  “Explorers?” Matt asks, copiously engrossed.

  “Yeah, he said the men who abducted him called him that,” Jane pauses, considering. “For all I know, I am an Explorer too. For me, though, it is different. Maybe I’m a fluke, a glitch in their system, an accident. It scares me to think I could be found out one day. Hopefully, these people Bryce talked about don’t know where I am. Or, they have decided to let me be, having no real use for me.”

  “Let us hope you are right.” Matt’s heart hardens to steel against evil forces that might put his wife in danger. He would give his life fighting to protect Jane. “Heaven help anyone who tries to lay a hand on you.”

  “My hero,” Jane smiles adoringly, her eyes shining.

  Scrubbing his cheek with the flat of his hand, Matt gravely concludes, “History is changed.”

  “Yes, regrettably,” Jane stymies fresh pain. “In the future world I came from, Mary Marshall lived to the ripe old age of ninety-three. She is supposed to be buried beside her colonel in Savannah’s Laurel Grove Cemetery. You don’t know how horrible it is to think of dear Mary planted among the burnt ruins of Tohidu. Because of me, her hasty grave is left to scavengers,” she breaks off bitterly.

  A grisly chill claws at her heart, but she continues, “Mary’s premature death is only the first tragedy. If I wasn’t here, you never would have been on that dangerous plank road in Virginia where soldiers found you half dead,” Jane says. Her green stare swims with melancholy. “What we’ve done, Bryce and I, is unforgivable. But then, in all this insanity,” her lips quiver and she presses them together.

  “We found each other,” Matt finishes for her. His mouth forms a rakish grin at the thought of their perfect union. He takes her hands in his, pulling her to her feet and tightly to him. Their bodies fit as if they are destined for one another — one heart, one soul in concert.

  “I’ve been waiting for you all my life, Mrs. Hopkins. Why, the universe could not keep us apart. The gravitational pull of our separate worlds, the propelling forces that have drawn us together. We have conquered the very complexities of time itself.”

  Matt kisses Jane soundly, hopelessly lost in the musky scent of her moist body and the spicy smell of roses from her evening bath. “Our love is right and good. We are meant to be.”

  Jane settles peacefully in her husband’s embrace. “So, where do we go from here?” she says, open and trusting.

  “There are still questions you must answer, gaps you must help me fill. But think, perhaps we still have a purpose in this, you and I. Whatever supernatural scheme is at play, it appears from Jackson’s brush with death that some secret entity is working in our favor. Do you not agree? It seems the Confederacy could very well gain enough ground to have a great and glorious victory.”

  Jane cocks her head and one reddish-brown eyebrow curls upward, “Men and war! Yes, it is a fight to win. I get that. But I have my doubts and posed this same point of view before at Tohidu. Is it really for the best? Is it really good for our country, our citizens as a whole to be torn in two? And slavery? You don’t even want to get me started. If slavery is not wrong, nothing is wrong,” Jane speaks the very words of President Lincoln, something she remembers from high school. “It is a dreadful thing, Matt, that can kill a nation. Nothing good will come of it.”

  “I am afraid, my sweet Jane, only time will tell.”

  “And God-willing we have plenty of it.”

  “There is much to do,” Matt ponders with quiet purpose.

/>   “Yes. I dare say you, my husband, will have a hand in our future, for better or for worse.”

  Jane’s face clouds with passion. “Considering our, shall we say, turn of events, it is important that you know I am with you one hundred percent, Major Hopkins. When it comes to warfare, I will respect your wisdom and heed your advice. But remember, sir, we are in this together. I expect the very same from you in return.”

  With a loving peck on the tip of his fine nose, Jane pulls out of Matt’s arms, “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get dressed. The household is already up and probably wanting to know what the heck is going on in here.”

  Chapter 16

  FLIGHT FROM HELL

  A down-rush of air spreads along the ground and sweeps sand across a stretch of cracked asphalt overgrown with weeds. The deserted landing strip might have been a road once. Shielding her eyes from a blast of dust that stings her ankles, Sophie looks up at a shabby red and white windsock snapping on a pole. There is no control tower, no hangar, and no employees hustling about to guarantee their safe flight.

  “This is no airport!” The words stick in Sophie’s dry throat, plastered to her trachea.

  “Airport,” Masegi scoffs. “Who said anything about an airport?”

  “We are actually going to fly out of here?” In spite of herself, the nervous query flies off her tongue. Hopping on one foot, Sophie flicks a tiny pebble from her shoe and tries to tamp down her surging panic.

  Africa, diverse and fantastic in so many ways, is also unlike anything else when it comes to flying. While there are a few big airports, there are many more small airfields. Most of them feature rough, bumpy runways, which are hard to spot and even harder to land on.

  When Segi makes no comment, she adds in a grating high-pitched voice, “This is crazy! Do you have some sort of death wish?”

  With lightning speed, Segi takes the foolish woman by the shoulders. “Quiet, now!” He forces Sophie to look into his dark brown eyes, his face inches from hers, “You must let me help you. Think of the baby. Summon up your courage. This is the only way.” He lets her go abruptly.

  After an uneasy pause, “I guess I had that coming,” Sophie says honestly.

  Masegi grins, “I know this place well enough. It is most convenient.”

  “If you say so.” Sophie cups her hand on the top of her head that feels sore from her swift-moving migraine. As the sun’s arc reaches the peak of the mountains lined with clouds, a dreary gray haze settles over the sloping field below.

  A few skilled pilots for agriculture and small cargo transport purposes occupy the airfield. It is elevated and considered too dangerous for tourist flights. The runway can only be used in one direction — downhill on takeoff and uphill for landings.

  “Where did your brother go?”

  “Never mind. Here, put this on. You are a tourist, aye?” Masegi says. He hands Sophie a ball cap from his pack. It advertises Bushmans Kloof in bright-colored stitching.

  When they left Segi’s place, Sophie had been given a man’s khaki button-up shirt to wear. She had rolled up the sleeves and tied the front, tucking as much as she could into her pants. Winding her hair up, Sophie tugs the cap onto her head.

  “Tourist, huh?” Sophie rolls her eyes, her attention still locked on the sorry state of the field. She is quite certain she is about to take the flight from hell.

  Masegi heaves his backpack in Sophie’s direction, not releasing it until she has a good grasp. “Make yourself useful.”

  He greets his brother who had driven them in the Wrangler and disappeared somewhere when they arrived.

  Berko nods and hands off the large black duffel bag, “Here, bru.”

  Masegi’s arm drops from the weight.

  Without wasting time, they round the corner of two square white cinder-block buildings with frayed wooden slat roofs and bars for windows that look no less than abandoned. Beyond, there is a smattering of planes in various degrees of disrepair.

  “Great! An airplane graveyard,” Sophie mumbles, swinging the backpack over her shoulder.

  The trio head in the direction of a bright yellow single-engine Piper Cherokee. It stands out among the others with its paint lovingly waxed to enhance its sheen. It looks to her like it is in fairly good shape. Part of Sophie relaxes a little.

  “I got dis,” Berko says, answering the call of a shrill whistle. He forms an inflated smile and trots in the direction of a lanky man wearing a blue bandanna and baggy flowered shirt. When they meet, the man waves and the two shuffle inside through an open doorway where a scrawny dog exits, hobbling on three legs. The dog wanders over to a water bowl and with a burst of hidden energy chases a small brood of hens that squawk and cluck their objections. There is a vintage army-green jeep and small fuel truck parked nearby. Both are rusted and covered with grime. It gives no reassurance this is a functioning airfield.

  “Sort of old, don’t you think?” Sophie quips, “The plane, I mean.” She winks at Segi and is glad to hear him laugh at her banal joke.

  “Very funny. Hand me the backpack,” Masegi says. He opens the door to the yellow Piper’s cockpit. It creaks on its hinges, yet it is surprisingly lightweight. He heaves both bags into the back behind the seats and straps them down in a space Berko had modified for storage.

  “You are good, bru,” Berko says with a chord of anxiousness when he returns. He throws one long arm around Masegi, slapping his back. They lock hands and bump chests in a manly embrace. A meaningful stare burns between the brothers, but nothing more is said.

  Berko signals Sophie with a toss of his head in the direction of the plane. She follows him around to the passenger side, ducks her head, and climbs into the small space.

  “I’ve never been in an airplane like this before.”

  Berko grunts his mild distaste, but lends a hand when Sophie timidly wrestles with her shoulder harness. The straps that will keep her in her seat are stained and smell like old sweat. With Berko’s help, they are adjusted over her shoulders and fastened neatly into place.

  “This can never be tight enough,” Sophie retorts as she yanks. Her outward signs of apprehension are nothing compared to what is going on inside her.

  “He is a good pilot,” Berko assures. There is a tiny note of sympathy in his voice, but it does not reach his eyes. He hands Sophie a standard headset.

  Masegi makes a prompt walk-around, while his brother removes the chocks from the wheels. He remembers to duck low under the wing, not wanting to bang his head again on the fuel drains like he did last time. When all is ready, Masegi awkwardly climbs into the pilot’s seat. The vinyl, cracked with age, gives more than it should. He belts himself in and after pulling his headset on motions for Sophie to do the same.

  “Catch that top latch, will you?” He points to a second locking mechanism at the top edge of the passenger-copilot’s door.

  Segi’s voice comes through the Eardome speakers and makes Sophie jump.

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” she says through her mic, and Segi nods his approval.

  Sophie watches intensely as her would-be pilot goes through the cockpit safety checks. Segi reviews the dials and engages a number of switches and pulleys on the instrument panel.

  He indicates, “Parachutes are under the seats.”

  “Oh, that really makes me feel a whole lot better,” Sophie smirks. For some reason she glances back toward the wing on her side. In the distance and from their elevation she can see bands of sunlight catch on a large rolling red cloud coming from the only road leading in. “Segi?”

  “I see it. We will be out of here in a minute.” Flipping the master switch and priming the engine, Masegi adjusts the throttle, turns the key, and the Piper’s propeller sputters to life. “Hang on, this is going to be rough.”

  Sophie plants her feet and puts one hand on the seat and the other flat on the door window. She is not comfortable with the funny bow-tie shaped control wheel rocking on its own in front of her. And, she is definitely not sure she can
do this. Her neurotic impulse is to jump now before it is too late.

  Through the glass windshield, splattered with bird droppings on her side, she watches Berko make a mad dash between the buildings to his Wrangler.

  “Oh . . . my . . . God!” Sophie squeals, clamping her jaw shut to keep from biting her tongue on the next bump. As the aircraft’s tail spins round and they pick up speed on a sorry excuse for a runway, she has nothing practical to seize but her shoulder belt. She squeezes her eyes shut and hangs on so hard her knuckles turn white.

  The take-off is not an easy one, challenged by brisk winds and an uneven tarmac. Finally, after a few rapid deflection maneuvers they lift off. With the rubber wheels harshly thumping the ground a time or two for good measure, the rattling aircraft drifts to the left and right, drops a little, then soars into the air.

  Masegi breathes for the first time. He has not flown his brother’s plane in a while. He hands Sophie a green pack of Wrigley’s Doublemint from his shirt pocket. “Not so bad, aye?”

  “Speak for yourself.” Sophie opens one eye and then the other. She undoes the wrapper and pops a stick of gum into her mouth.

  The perspective of seeing out the front of the plane for the first time gives her a dizzying panoramic view through three windows. Her ears pop as they quickly pull away from solid ground. She swallows and chews madly to relieve the pressure in an unpressurized cabin.

  Twisting in her seat when they bank sharply right, her focus falls on an obnoxious black suburban, no, two, less than a mile out from where they took off. A cloud of dust temporarily obscures the vehicles after their brakes lock and they come to a sliding halt. Sophie turns to face forward again, not wanting to see more. A quick spell of vertigo overtakes her, causing her stomach to flip upside down. She pants to control the nausea and presses her fist to her hammering heart, chanting “we’re okay, we’re okay” to herself.

  “I think we just had a close call,” Sophie stammers when her episode of terror subsides enough.