The Celtic Key

by Barbara Best

  “Thank you, Mr. Bagger,” Jane smiles. It is no surprise the kindly shoemaker has already heard her news. “It is good to see you too.”

  “How’s business?” she asks, straightening the sleeves of her striped cream and teal taffeta jacket. Mr. Bagger’s attentive and liberal nature led her to offer a few modern ideas.

  “Marvelous, simply marvelous.”

  “Flying off the shelves, huh?”

  “Ah, indeed. Flying shoes, now that is an interesting concept,” Mr. Bagger laughs openly. “We have more orders than time to fill them. I’ve hired an apprentice since last we met. My nephew is quite handy and has a talent, I believe. The young man’s eagerness to learn is to be commended. I-uh, oh—”

  Mr. Bagger’s head swivels slightly on his neck. The two women are making a fuss over a number of decorative accessories in a glass cabinet. His back, bowed from years at his trade, is painfully stiff.

  “That is good to hear, Mr. Bagger,” Jane says. “I am just stopping by to say hello. Please, go ahead with your customers. I’ll wait.”

  Browsing Mr. Bagger’s shop, Jane appreciates the attractive display in the front window and wanders to the shelves, assessing the well-made merchandise and smart styles. She wonders if Mr. Bagger has obtained the patent she encouraged him to file for.

  It is not long before her focus falls on a pair of lady’s high-top oxford shoes with a black toe and lovely camel-colored upper. “Oh my gosh, these are nice.” Jane takes off her white gloves to inspect the craftsmanship. It is the same shade as her Cleopatra. Small covered buttons run down the outer side, decorated with a scalloped-edge trim.

  “I knew you’d like them,” Mr. Bagger says from behind. “Stay put.”

  Within minutes Mr. Bagger is out from the back of his shop where a constant tapping, scraping sound drifts through the heavy velvet curtains. Dangling in his hand is a pair of shoes just like the ones Jane admired. They look large enough to fit her feet.

  “For you,” Mr. Bagger practically gloats. “I had started on these and finished them as soon as I heard you were in town. Burned the midnight oil to get them done. I saved your measurements, and they have all the . . . how do you say it, bells and whistles,” he chuckles, proud of his work.

  “I can’t believe it,” Jane’s eyes widen, and moisture blurs her vision. “You are too sweet, Mr. Bagger. My husband has an account—”

  “I won’t hear of it, Mrs. Hopkins. Please, they are a gift,” he winks. “Something to remember me by.”

  Jane leans forward and gives Mr. Bagger a kiss on the cheek. He raises his hand to cradle it, his eyes bright with admiration.

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Bagger. May I try them on?”

  “It would be an honor,” Mr. Bagger motions to a bench.

  There had been a lot of changes in his shop. Early in their friendship, Jane had given Mr. Bagger a number of tips she had taken from experiences with shoes and shoe stores in the future. She told him what she liked and didn’t like. Of course, Mr. Bagger never knew where her ideas came from, but he took heed just the same.

  Jane slips her foot into the soft molded leather with precision stitching. “These are awesome,” she exclaims, enjoying instant comfort and Mr. Bagger’s cackle at her heartfelt outburst. “No one makes shoes like you, Mr. Bagger.”

  “Thanks to you, my dear lady.” Mr. Bagger puts his right hand over his heart, “How can I ever repay you?”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m happy for you and wish you great success. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Jane crosses her legs and stretches her right foot out further from under the layers of fabric that cover the floor. Bending over, she runs her hand along one side and over the toe of her new shoe. Mr. Bagger hands her a buttonhook. The arch support and cushioned interior is perfectly in place. “They fit like a glove,” she remarks. “I love the really low heel.” It will not add much to her height.

  The tinkling of the bell draws their attention to the front of the shop, and three more ladies step inside, chattering excitedly. “Mr. Bagger. Mr. Bagger. Good day, sir!”

  Mr. Bagger’s eyes dart to his new customers, “Why good day, ladies.”

  “You are a busy man,” Jane grins, and slides her new shoe off her foot. “Go ahead, please, they need you. Do you mind if I explore your workshop? I know my way.”

  “But of course. Make yourself at home, Mrs. Hopkins. If you like, I will take these to the counter to wrap.” He whispers, “I shouldn’t be but a minute,” and turns away. “Well, ladies! What brings you here on this beautiful day?”

  Jane pulls her gloves on, nods another time and quietly dips through the drapes. Following the tap, tap, tap, she takes a few steps down a narrow hall and stands in the doorway of a well-lit room. At least, it is bright in the center where a fine workbench is situated with all the tools a cobbler could ever want.

  “Mr. Keaton,” Jane remembers Mr. Bagger’s nephew. He has grown at least six inches and is much taller than his uncle now. Taller than her too.

  “Ah! Miss Jane. I mean, Mrs. Hopkins. My uncle told me,” the young man stumbles, dropping one of his new creations on the floor, along with a small tack hammer. “I beg your pardon,” he chuckles. “Mrs. Hopkins,” he repeats, slower this time. He wipes his hands on his apron and tugs it over his head, laying it aside.

  “Oh please, what’s with the formalities,” Jane grins.

  Everett Keaton is one of the best-looking guys around, adorable, elegant, and prime for marriage real estate. Being there is a severe shortage of men, he has the eye of all the young ladies in Savannah. Sadly for them, though, Jane suspects he holds no interest in the opposite sex.

  A slight frown comes with her thought. Everett must be nearing enlistment age. All able-bodied males at the age of eighteen are liable for a three-year term in the Confederate States Army. Jane also knows for a fact that boys are going into service as young as fourteen and fifteen, having lied about their age. “We’re friends, Everett, remember?”

  “Yes, of course. Jane,” Everett smiles. A rush of pleasure sends color to his cheeks. His eyes glance to the lean figure of another man in the room. He is standing by a desk in the shadows.

  Jane thinks the form is studying her, but can’t make out the face.

  “Jane Peterson,” comes a smooth, deep voice.

  “Do I know you?” Jane is startled and pastes a smile on. Everett takes her elbow and guides her closer.

  “Mrs. Hopkins? This is Mr. Dodd. He just showed up one day,” Everett shrugs, as if apologizing. “It seems, we can’t get rid of him,” he mildly jests. “But then, he is a big help. Aren’t you, Mr. Dodd? A regular jack of all trades.”

  “Mr. Dodd.” Jane watches the man step into the light. He wears civilian clothes, but his skin tone and strong angular features give him away. His raven-black hair is cut short. And, unlike the favored style of men in this period, he has no facial hair. Jane’s careful stare travels to the most striking blue eyes she has ever seen. The kind that never miss a trick. He holds a cane in one hand, notched and roughly carved out of a light-colored wood. The bark is left in places. Mr. Dodd takes another step forward. One leg lags a little.

  “Indian,” Everett clarifies, when Jane’s eyes grow wide.

  “Native American,” Jane corrects automatically, rudely staring.

  “Cherokee.” Mr. Dodd’s piercing blue gaze holds steady.

  “Have we met?” Jane blinks and covers her right gloved hand. Her Lover’s Eye ring feels hot on her skin. Its raised impression bulges through the fabric.

  “No, Jane Peterson,” Mr. Dodd says. “We are acquainted through a mutual friend, a Mr. McKenzie.”

  The man speaks good English. His mannerisms are gentlemanly.

  “Bryce?” Jane mutters.

  “I can explain. But not here,” Mr. Dodd says. He looks over at Everett who is standing with his mouth agape. “Perhaps we could have a minute?”

  “My carriage and driver are out front,” Jane sugg
ests, recovering from her confusion. “Maybe a walk? I think better on my feet,” she finishes with Matt’s favorite line. Her eyes dart to the man’s cane. “Oh, but—”

  “I can walk,” Mr. Dodd says plainly.

  “Good, then. Mr. Keaton, can I please borrow Mr. Dodd for thirty minutes?” Jane asks.

  “Uh, why yes, of course,” Everett nods, wringing his hands. “If I may accompany you—”

  “That’s very kind, sir,” Jane smiles gently. “But I’ve interrupted your work enough. We’ll be fine. I guarantee my husband’s manservant will keep a watchful eye and we won’t be long. Can we use the back door?”

  “But, it lets out into the alley,” Everett sputters. “I . . . I’m sorry, I can’t let you do that. It just isn’t—”

  “I see,” Jane’s brows shoot up. “We’ll leave separately, then.” She sure as heck isn’t going to parade through the shop with those busy-body customers scrutinizing her every move. Leaving on the arm of an Indian is sure to cause tongues to wag. Mean prejudices and idle speculation abound in their society. It wouldn’t pay to subject Mr. Dodd, Mr. Bagger or his business to unnecessary degradation and misery.

  “It’s okay, Mr. Keaton.” She tries to ease poor Everett’s misgivings, “I’ll speak to Mr. Bagger on my way out the front. Mr. Dodd, will you please meet me at my carriage?”

  Jane catches Mr. Dodd’s quiet nod and turns to make her calm exit through Mr. Bagger’s shop with her heart literally in her throat. She is dying to find out more about the man who knows her best friend. What’s more, she is stunned beyond belief. It is entirely possible she has just stumbled upon the mysterious link to her Lover’s Eye.

  Chapter 32

  I AM WHITE OWL

  White Owl silently slips out the back of Mr. Bagger’s shop and covers the short distance to the front facade. He spots Mrs. Hopkins’ carriage and driver, but prefers to wait in the alleyway at a vantage point that is less disruptive.

  Living among the white people of Savannah is no easy feat, yet he earns a fair wage at Bagger’s Cobble and Wares doing odd jobs. His education, white heritage and the remarkable fact he and the old shoemaker are both acquainted with Bryce McKenzie made an impression. When he dropped the name Jane Peterson during his interview, he was hired. Mr. Bagger has great admiration for Bear On Top’s woman.

  White Owl did not mention his military credentials. His Confederate service in Thomas’ Legion is buried in the past, and rightly so. There is always a chance someone might remember the Cherokee scalping raid on Union soldiers or, even worse, hang him for desertion.

  His soldiering days are over anyway. White Owl squeezes the muscle in his thigh, peering down at the constant throb of an injury that has been slow to heal. His horse had taken a hard fall near Mantle Rock, crushing his lower leg. He accepts his fate and the events that have brought him here to this place and ultimately to Jane Peterson. He trusts the Spirit Guides who direct his destiny.

  When he and Bear On Top parted ways, the fire in White Owl’s heart turned him westward. He yearned to join his Cherokee brothers who had been driven along a route called the Trail of Tears. He wished to honor the Cherokee men, women and children pushed to the breaking point by a government that brutally closed its doors on a people who had done no wrong. On his journey, he slept under the moon and stars on his white friend’s bearskin. Bear On Top said it was a gift, a way to thank him for all he had done. White Owl believes it completes their circle.

  There are scores of sorrowful stories about the long walk. The Cherokee will never forget the thousands who died of exposure, starvation and disease. Those forced to abandon their homelands in the southeast. The wise leaders of the last tribe told their people to revolt. They attacked the guards, killed them, and fled to the mountains. This is how White Owl’s clan came to be in North Carolina.

  White Owl has seen with his own eyes the special flower that grows along the trail. He could hear the moans and sad wails of the suffering. Legend tells him Cherokee mothers grieved so heavily over the loss of so many that the elders prayed for a sign to lift their spirits. With each mother’s tear that fell onto the earth, a beautiful white rose sprouted. The golden stamen at the center of each bloom is a reminder of a great gold rush and the white man’s greed.

  Roving battalions and violent skirmishes in a war he detests plagued him on his way to Oklahoma. Though there were several close encounters, White Owl tracked alone, blending into nature and the landscape. The closer he got to the end of his journey, the more restless his spirit became.

  When troubled, White Owl prayed to the Creator Glooscap for meaning. Respecting the customs of his ancestors, he fasted four days, preparing his body and mind for a quest.

  White Owl went deep into the forest, smudged his face, and used smoke from his campfire to purify and prepare for the arduous journey. He sang the sacred chants of his people and watched the sun rise and set four times. On the fifth day in the nascent dawn, his vision came in a powerful dream-state.

  White Owl spied a girl and boy walking hand-in-hand. Many times the spirits in his dreamworld played tricks. He lifted his gaze to the heavens, “I am White Owl. I have come to seek the reason for my existence.”

  Rocking gently, he took the animal form of his given name — a magnificent white owl with blue eyes. Perched in a tall pine, he tested his feathered wings and swooped down to shorten his distance to the knowledge unfolding. This time he landed in a sturdy oak. From there, White Owl’s forward-facing blue eyes studied the girl and boy. His mind echoed the ceremonial songs of those who came before him.

  “Let me learn what is hidden in every leaf and rock,” he said.

  Suddenly, through a break in the trees, a concentrated beam of light fell on the children’s heads. It created brilliant crowns of red and gold so bright it hurt White Owl’s eyes. Did their presence foretell things to come?

  “Reveal to me your wisdom, Mighty One,” he prayed.

  A sweet breath as pure as air after a heavy rain whispered, “So be it.”

  Now, the two small forms were chasing fireflies at dusk on the shore of a wide river. The glass surface of the water reflected the light of an eclipsed moon that looked as if an enormous frog was trying to swallow it whole. At first, he thought the lively figures were Nature Spirits of Cherokee legend. Are they here with their magic powers to punish those to the East? He watched and waited for meaning, but he only felt disappointment.

  White Owl in his bird form cocked his snowy-white head, gave it a small shake and blinked his saucer-size blue eyes.

  “Why, it is only children throwing rocks at nothing!” Their skin was lily-white like that of his Euro-American mother, white like those who invaded their land, broke their treaties and murdered their people.

  “Why do you mock me, Great One?” he demanded. “Why are meager children here in this place of my dreams?” The silence was loud as he waited for first light.

  Frolicking along the sandy bank at the water’s edge, the children laughed and crooned — we all live in a yellow submarine, yellow submarine. To White Owl, the words had no value. In time, the children took up sticks and began to swing their make-believe sabers at a cluster of tall reeds. Their actions flushed out a bird.

  White Owl moved quickly to hide himself, but it was too late. The Chickadee, no bigger than the early fruit of the native pawpaw, flew up into his tree and landed next to him. White Owl remembered Cherokee tales of the Chickadee and how they helped defeat evil.

  Training a round eye as black as an onyx bead on him, the small bird sliced the quiet with a series of melodic chirps and tweets. “Something big is coming. Something big is coming,” it repeated over and over.

  “What is this big thing you speak of little bird?”

  “Don’t you see?” The Chickadee was truly amazed. “They are the chosen ones who will free your people in the west. They will make a world for the Cherokee and their Native American brothers to thrive and do great things. They will unite your nations, cur
e your diseases, and bring a lasting peace.”

  As if they overheard, the children stopped what they were doing and raised their curious faces up toward the tree and White Owl. White Owl’s recognition was so strong the shock of it almost caused him to lose his balance. The young girl’s features and piercing green eyes were different, though very much the same.

  “Jane Peterson,” White Owl confirms. The name spills from his tongue, as noise from the city street brings him back to the present. He sucks air deeply through his nose and props his shoulder against the rough slat siding on the exterior of Mr. Bagger’s shop. His vision is as clear today as it was then. He remembers the photograph his white brother Bryce McKenzie carried from the future. White Owl remembers the face of this woman whom Bear On Top had traveled the universe to find. It is Jane Peterson, the woman who has taken the name Hopkins whom he waits for now.

  Hearing the distinct sound of the little bell, White Owl silently observes Mrs. Hopkins step out onto the wooden sidewalk. She smiles at her driver who waits by the carriage door and hands him a package. Signaling one minute with her finger, the woman’s green searching gaze quickly finds him. Her eyes, the child’s eyes in his dream, twinkle with energy.

  “Mr. Dodd, there you are,” Jane huffs. “I thought I’d never get away.”

  “Why Mrs. Hopkins, I do decle-ah,” a lively voice calls out. “I heard y’all were in town. My, my! What a plesha it is to find you heeah,” the woman drawls. Her accent is sugary sweet as she moves her parasol to her other hand. She is careful not to let light fall on her magnolia-white skin that is prized by Southern women and protected by bonnets, veils and gloves from the Georgia sun.

  Maria Nichols’ open carriage pulls diagonally to the curb near the alley’s entrance. The driver sitting on the bench out front jerks his head toward a frustrated howl and the crack of a whip. A covered wagon with two large horses, driven by a man whose face is angry red, recklessly maneuvers around. The commotion causes dust to fly everywhere.