by Barbara Best
“Geez!” Jane mutters, and gives Mrs. Nichols her friendliest smile. She is the last person Jane would want to run into during their short stay in Savannah. Not because she doesn’t like Maria Nichols, but because her husband owns the newspaper and printing business on Drayton and Bay Street. Things have a way of getting back to him. Jane spins round to tell Mr. Dodd she will only be a second more, but he is gone.
Chapter 33
A HIGHER PURPOSE
Maria Nichols immediately extends an invitation to Jane to join her and her circle of friends for afternoon tea. This is quickly followed by a pitiful complaint about the sorry state of her pantry.
Thankfully, Jane is able to express her sincere regrets with a solid excuse.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Nichols,” Jane says. “It is such a sweet offer, but I won’t be able to attend on this short notice. Major Hopkins, I’m afraid, has my afternoon planned for me.” When in doubt, blame your husband.
Jane deliberately avoids telling Maria she and Matt will be departing in the morning and her list of preparations is long. She does, however, promise a visit on their next stay under better circumstances. Their conversation lasts only a few minutes, but by the end James Isaac is nudging her on time. She checks again for Mr. Dodd. He is nowhere in sight.
The carriage ride home, after a stop at Laurel Grove Cemetery, is enjoyable. Savannah, one of the Confederacy’s most populous cities and suppliers of cotton, is holding its own under the most chaotic circumstances. Jane notices more military presence than she remembers from before.
The people of Savannah are living out their lives, enduring adversity and sorrow, yet they bravely carry on. The prevailing war, politics, government policies and economics are never isolated from those on the home front. The lives of civilians — ordinary people in unusual times — may be removed from the events on distant battlefields, but they are no less affected. They serve the South, and deeply so.
“Let’s pull round back, okay?” Jane says to James Isaac.
The carriage wobbles its way along the sandy track to the back of the Hopkins family home. They pull up next to a large granite block used as a carriage step. James Isaac tugs the break and hands the reins to a young boy who scampers up to help.
Jane takes James Isaac’s hand, “Thank you.”
She notices a new horse grazing on a patch of sweet clover in the shade of her favorite oak. It is the tree she and Tessie shared, whiling away the ho-hum hours after Sunday church when the other women of the house were napping. They had many soul-searching conversations there, expressing their most intimate thoughts and feelings. Tessie was one of the few who knew her big secret — that she was the Mystifying Ghost Lady from the future.
“We have cump’ny, Miz Jane,” James Isaac gravely announces the obvious.
“Why Mr. Dodd,” Jane exclaims. She does not bother to ask the man how he found their house. Savannians make it their business to know a little bit about everyone in town, and a little something more about their personal affairs. She crosses the yard in a quick gait, hearing James Isaac’s disapproving grunt behind her.
Mr. Dodd lifts his black bowler hat off his head and holds it naturally in the crook of his arm, careful not to drop his cane. It is a fine hat with an eagle’s feather fixed under the band. He had worn the feather in a braid behind his left ear before he cut his hair. Cutting his hair not only helped him blend in with the ways of the white man, but also separated him from his past. In a ritual of respect, he dropped the long blue-black strands into a fast flowing river.
“I am so glad to see you,” Jane adds. “I hope we have time to talk.”
Taking the steps up onto the platform of the small back porch, “I hardly ever use the front door. The back of the house feels more inviting, don’t you agree? Please, do come in.”
White Owl knows ladies of most Southern households would not enter with their guests at the back door. Back doors were reserved for workers, drifters, deliveries, and those of lesser status, such as himself. White Owl is intrigued.
Seeing Bear On Top’s woman in the golden afternoon light nearly takes his breath away. She is the vision of fiery red for faith and happiness and the purest green for harmony and healing. He thinks it represents the painted colors on their tribal talking stick that is used in ceremony and when council is called to present their sacred points of view. It is also like the hair and eyes of the girl child playing at the water’s edge in his dream world. He does not understand all of this wisdom from the Great Spirit, but he knows his place is here with this woman. He remembers the small bird, “Something big is coming.” The chosen ones who will free the Cherokee.
“I’ll take your hat. Follow me,” Jane lifts her skirt and heads into the house, bursting with curiosity and telling herself to take it slow. She hangs Mr. Dodd’s hat on a hall tree stand. “Are you thirsty, Mr. Dodd? The kitchen is this way.”
Phoebe is busy in the kitchen dicing an onion with an oversize cleaver on a worn table that is waist high. Something bubbling in a kettle on the wood burning stove smells heavenly. Phoebe had taken over Cook’s responsibilities in the Savannah household and is a big help to James Isaac who is getting on in years. Phoebe and James Isaac work well together and will do anything for the residence’s temporary overseers. They both assert Mr. and Mrs. Collier treat them kindly.
“Phoebe, this is Mr. Dodd.”
Jane gets the round-eyed look of surprise. It almost makes her laugh. Poor Phoebe is used to her cutting through the kitchen and coming and going out the back, but not with a bona fide American Indian in tow.
“Where are Mr. and Mrs. Collier?”
“Volunteerin’ at church, Miz Jane. Spect dey be dare awhile.”
Jane turns to Mr. Dodd. “A beverage maybe? We have cider, water, tea,” she offers.
“Sorry, Miz Jane, we is out of tea,” Phoebe reminds. Tea, of course, is a frivolous concern. There are shortages and needs far greater. The Union’s iron grip on their livelihood and restriction of trade has suffocated their city and one of the Confederacy’s most prominent ports.
“No, thank you,” White Owl speaks softly. His voice is washed with patience. He wonders where his words will come from. There is much he must tell Jane Peterson.
“Are you hungry?” Jane’s stomach gurgles at the thought of food.
When Mr. Dodd shakes his head, no, Jane adds, “Phoebe, would you please bring something for us to drink in a little while? No hurry. Major Hopkins is not expected until near dark. We’ll hold supper until then.” Jane’s eyes dart to James Isaac who had stepped into the kitchen, his hands locked in front like a security guard. His questioning gaze shows a hint of censure and alarm. She will try to explain later, if she can.
Jane checks her timepiece that is hooked on her chatelaine and smiles, “This way, Mr. Dodd.” She imagines they have about two hours before Matt gets home and heads for his bath. Something he says he must do to compete with his wife who makes a daily habit of it.
It is a long ride to Colonel Olmstead’s encampment at Camp Neely. The colonel and Matt will have plenty to talk about. It is the first time the two old friends have united since Captain McIntosh ushered a gravely wounded Matt and his family from Savannah to Sea Oaks Plantation and the comfort of the Old Homestead.
Closing the pocket doors behind her, Jane pulls off her gloves and lays them on a small round table. She studies the Lover’s Eye ring on her finger and thinks it is the best place to start. She works it off over her knuckle.
“I have something that may be of interest to you, Mr. Dodd.”
This first remark catches White Owl off guard. He hesitates just inside the entrance to a room that contains a large cherry-wood desk and rows upon rows of books lining shelves from ceiling to floor.
“My father-in-law’s study. He loved books,” Jane comments. She doesn’t explain Matt’s father is dead, killed in the war. “Please, make yourself at home. Won’t you have a seat?” She is amazed at her level of calmness
. She crosses to a set of wingback chairs, hoping the man will join her.
White Owl remains standing and maintains a respectable distance between them. Braced on his cane, he takes a position with his back to the fireplace mantle. His eyes, the deep hue of an Arctic iceberg, are shielded, but not cold.
“You do not fear a stranger?” White Owl asks, meaning Indian. The white man fears what he does not understand.
“Of course not,” Jane says, catching the connotation. She draws the back of her skirt and hoop up to settle into one of the chairs.
“Honestly, Mr. Dodd, these people around here have a problem with just about anyone and anything that doesn’t fit into their tight little perception of themselves and their surroundings. I know all too well,” Jane smiles sincerely. “You and I have something in common, I think.” She holds her Lover’s Eye ring out in the open palm of her hand for Mr. Dodd to see.
White Owl steps closer, moving his cane to his left hand.
“Take it,” Jane encourages. “I have spent most of my life wondering where I might find a match. I would think it is you, Mr. Dodd. If the iris was painted brilliant blue instead of brown, I declare it would be exact.”
Mr. Dodd studies the ring with keen appreciation. His shoulders relax and he slowly lifts his head to meet the steady green gaze of Bear On Top’s woman.
“I am White Owl to those who know me.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “I am Cherokee, but the blood of my Euro-American mother and her people run through me. This is how I come to know this eye. It is the eye of my white ancestor who explored Georgia and the Carolinas. My mother had a miniature painting of him. She kept it in a small chest with other tokens from her past. She told me stories about the expeditions of one named William Bartram and another, Jack McIntosh. The white men who visited our tribes. It is written.”
“Yes, there are volumes about William Bartram. He explored the American Southeast to record the region’s plants, animals, and Indian peoples.”
Jane is rigid with excitement, almost beyond containment. “I know the McIntoshes, the descendants of Jack McIntosh. They live near Darien.” It simply can’t be a coincidence. “They told me about William Bartram. He was a friend of their family. Do you know your ancestor’s name?” Jane indicates the ring, holding her breath.
“I honor his name in order to dwell in white society. It is who I am now. My people, the Cherokee, take many names in a lifetime.” The ring is delicate in his hand. “Gideon Dodd. Two Feathers. He was a Lutheran missionary who scouted with the great explorers. Two Feathers brought his family to live in Cherokee Country many moons ago.”
“Gideon Dodd,” Jane repeats with a sigh of reverence. “I can’t tell you how much it means to finally know,” Jane says. “Don’t you think it extremely odd that I should have a ring linked directly to you?”
“Considering,” White Owl hesitates, then solemnly inserts, “Considering you are from the future?”
Jane’s heart skips a beat. “No way! Bryce told you that?”
White Owl turns the ring between his brown, callused fingers that are stained with shoe polish he can’t wash off. Satisfied, he holds it out to Bear on Top’s woman.
“Don’t you want to keep it? I mean, it belongs to your family.”
“The ring is meant for you, Jane Peterson.”
“So, Bryce told you we are from the future. You know about us,” Jane tries to quiet her racing pulse. Part of her is dying to hear more, the other part is scared to death of what she might learn. Swallowing hard, her mouth is suddenly dry and her ears are buzzing.
“Yes, Bryce McKenzie — Bear On Top. He told me many things.”
“Bear On Top,” Jane laughs outright. “How in the world did he get that name?” Jane’s face glows with amusement.
Over the course of an hour, White Owl maps out the details of his time with Bryce McKenzie. He describes how he found Bryce laying beneath the spirit of a Great Bear and their long journey from Virginia to Georgia. He tells her stories Bear On Top shared with him and about his struggle to reach Savannah.
After a pause, “Did Bear On Top find what he was looking for?” White Owl asks. His piercing blue eyes did not miss the symbol of matrimony the woman wears. Jane Peterson chose another and has taken his surname.
“If you mean me, yes, he found me,” Jane casts her gaze down at her hands. She can still feel the stinging pain of her last time with Bryce. They had tried to make the best of a bad situation. Her marriage to Matt was a terrible blow to her best friend who had traveled so far.
Jane raises her face to the man who is linked to her destiny. The ache in her heart is obvious. Moisture pools in her eyes the color of new spring growth reflected on the surface of a pond.
“He was ill,” White Owl injects instinctively.
“Yes, very ill,” Jane explains, even though somehow an explanation does not seem necessary. “A disease. Bryce said, malaria. He would likely have died. I sent him back to 2013, the future where we have modern treatments for a lot of diseases.”
It is totally bizarre how the contrasting eyes, the right and the left, of a Lutheran missionary could end up on a ring in her possession and the lid of a mysterious Celtic box that encased a key perfectly timed for Bryce. It is like they are characters in a video game with a futuristic gamer controlling their every move, weaving the fabric of their stories — beyond detection, beyond reproach. The very idea is madly unsettling.
Bryce knows more about it. He felt Sophie and Ben had tricked him through the time portal. He warned Jane others are involved. It frightens her to think the new life she has built for herself with Matt could be tampered with, even destroyed by something she cannot comprehend. She hopes and prays she is here by mistake, that she will go unnoticed. Perhaps she is obsolete.
Saving the best for last, White Owl finally tells Jane about his personal journey to join the Cherokee out West. Most importantly, he shares the wisdom of his people’s Great Spirit that came to him in a vision. He describes a girl and boy who have given him wondrous hope. It is his belief they will forge a new life for the Cherokee and other tribes. He trusts the Mighty Ones who speak to him. They are the givers of truth and wisdom. They must both trust this wisdom because they are chosen for a higher purpose.
Jane Peterson, sitting as still as a stone statue, is captivated by White Owl’s story. They are temporarily interrupted when Phoebe, in her soundless way, brings a tray into the room with the family’s crystal and a plate dressed with slices of warm cake that smell like cinnamon. She sets it on a narrow table by the window and quietly slips out.
Although White Owl declines her offer of refreshments, Jane pops a pinch of cake into her mouth and pours herself a half glass of water, which she quickly finishes off. Gasping with nervous tension at the last swallow, she keeps her back to the room and her guest. She stares for a while at nothing, her mind scattered in all directions. Eventually drawing in like ball-bearings toward a magnet, Jane comes to a single meaning.
“The girl in your vision. You said she looks like me?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m married,” Jane stops abruptly at the implication, feeling the heat rise to her face. She often thinks of having children one day. With acute appreciation, Jane is cognizant of the fact that she trusts this man implicitly. This Native American who prefers to stand rather than sit and has only just come into her life from out of nowhere.
Things are not what they seem. Her view of the universe is different. She lives in a supernatural dimension, split off from the naive souls around her. The realists who perceive each day in practical terms, grounded in their predictable routines. They see a teacup on a table, reach for a sip, and lo and behold, the vessel’s handle is soon in their grasp and they are swallowing the hot liquid down. Their time is fantastically fixed. Although they share the unknown from day-to-day, the surprise events that happen are well charted within the realm of worldly experience and logic. They all share the common knowledge their l
ives are wrapped in one neat little package.
He is watching her even now. Jane can feel his wise blue eyes on her back. Yes, she believes him. She believes White Owl’s incredible truth, influenced by ceremony and guided by spirits and the mysterious ways of an indigenous culture. Although they are worlds apart, she accepts his assurance. He has offered it honestly and without reservation in words she cannot refute, “As sure as the sun will rise and take away the night, Jane Peterson-Hopkins, we walk the same path.”
Chapter 34
INVITATION TO MORNING PRAYERS
Colette takes a leisurely stretch, feeling soreness in her stomach muscles, and yawns wide. She studies the still figure that has nodded off in the chair.
“Sophie? Are you awake?”
“Oh,” Sophie stirs groggily to life. Sitting forward, she notices discomfort between her shoulder blades and rubs at the source of irritation with her hand. “Ouch,” she complains, noticing her back is stiff too. “I couldn’t sleep.” Cloudy snippets of thoughts from a restless night hover, but the feelings attached to them have become muted.
“You are okay, madame? The baby?”
“Yes, we’re both fine, thank goodness.” Sophie offers up a silent prayer. Despite the sickness her child thrives. A son, if Seamus’ prediction of the future comes true.
When there is a sharp rap on their cabin door, both women’s eyes meet.
“This early? Who do you suppose it is?” Sophie whispers.
“We’re not decent,” Colette calls, taking control.
“Pardon me, ma’am. I have a message for Widow Downing.”
They recognize the young voice instantly. There are two cabin boys employed by the Nannie Dee. Neither one is older than the age of ten.
“Mon Dieu!” Colette throws her hands up in mock-complaint. She projects, “Daniel Platt, is that you?”
