The Celtic Key

by Barbara Best

“Better close your mouth,” he chuckles. “I saw a fly buzzing round here a minute ago.” Not without sympathy, he asks, “Are you okay? Do you want me to keep going?”

  Kat bobs her head and swallows, “I’ll hold my questions. Please continue, sir.”

  Bryce takes up where he left off.

  “Now, to a matter I am determined to share. I might footnote for the sake of good conscience, my contact with you or anyone in the future has been forbidden. It is a pact I agreed to long ago. And it is for good reason. We are heavily burdened by the possibility of causing some unforeseen chaos or devastation that might wreck our wondrous accomplishments.

  But still! I question (for I am as impetuous as ever), is it possible the compelling reason to write this letter is yet another slice of a complex plan and meant to be? I might further justify — can it hurt to simply add a little more to something you already touched on during our talk outside the chapel the day I wed?

  That being said, it is important I tell you, unequivocally, you were right. You are an ‘Explorer’ and there is a faction at work in all this. It is called the Salva Society. Its archrival, the Highland Gaelic Rite, is just as conniving. These people are dangerous and mean harm. They are the beginning and the end of this thing we have experienced — this alter reality, these dimensions in time. I cannot warn you enough, if you find they exist where you are, please take great care. They exercise influence beyond imagination and could be looking for you.

  There now (huge sigh) I have said my peace for what it is worth. My Lover's Eye ring is contained in this box. It is a promise that I am really here, and you are really there. We have danced to a different song, my dear friend. Should I draw you a picture of my heart, know you have a place in it, Bryce McKenzie. You possessed it early and have maintained it thus.

  So, that’s me, trite with wisdom. I think I will take another cup of tea, or maybe go reckless and eat some of that peach cobbler sweet Tessie has been after me to try. It is Cook’s new recipe in observance of our brief stay. She says that old tree out in the orchard has been dropping peaches like it is somehow its business — which, when I think about it, I suppose it is.”

  Bryce’s voice breaks. He has trouble uttering the final line. Taking a deep breath, he hands the pages over, “Please, you finish.”

  “Jane Fiona Peterson-Hopkins, 1887. P.S. Please pardon my chicken scratch. Writing with pen and ink has never been my forte — LOL.”

  “L-O-L? How? You?” Kat flounders. The dimple on her cheek, an inherited trait traced to Chloe McIntosh, deepens as her mouth forms a thin line. Her tapered brows draw into a disturbed scowl. Any jubilation she might have entertained upon finding an original penned letter from the famed Jane Hopkins is clouded by confusion.

  “Lots of laughs. As in a barrel of,” Bryce says crossly and abruptly walks away.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the window. Don’t worry, I’m not headed anywhere. I just need a minute to think.”

  Bryce weaves through the attic menagerie of antiques and positions himself where dreary light of an unpredictable day streams in. His head is pounding from the magnitude of not only Jane’s letter, but also what he might do with Kat Logan. Now, she is involved and it looks like the damage is done. He crosses his arms. The only sound is a bird’s pitiful peep in the tree outside and Kat’s troubled breathing. The old house is quiet, waiting.

  “You can’t tell me you are the Bryce McKenzie in this letter. Don’t even try,” Kat submits, feeling shaken. She cannot deny the look of vulnerability she saw on his face. Was this the woman who caused his pain? She immediately rejects her thought as ridiculous, a romantic impulse.

  When there is no response from the man, she continues, “And, why the warning about Salva?”

  Her Uncle Hal complains to this day the organization is way too powerful. He has told her a number of times too much power corrupts and he is right to a certain extent. Plainly, the Salva Society benefits from complete freedom to operate without accountability. They have their hands in just about everything and certainly a firm grip on Sea Oaks.

  Bryce runs one hand through his hair, “Yeah, I can sum it up in two words. Time travel.” Keeping his back to her, he cannot bear to see the impact of this revelation on the poor woman’s psyche. He hates dragging her into this.

  “I am not even going to repeat that,” Kat laughs jaggedly, revealing her taut nerves. “What tomfoolery is this? It’s a joke,” she decides.

  “Nope, far from it,” Bryce says dully. He thinks about his hat, of all things, the one he bought in Savannah in the year 1863. He bought it right before he set out on his horse Lucky for Darien and a glorious reunion with Jane. Oh, what high hopes and happy expectations he had then. Now, that same hat hangs downstairs on a wooden rack at the front entrance hall of the Old Homestead, one hundred fifty years away from the woman he loves. The muscles of Bryce’s arms constrict protectively over his chest.

  A chair scrapes the floor and Kat plunks down, feeling her legs turn to rubber. She searches the pages for meaning.

  “Hey, wait a minute. Something’s not right.” Kat’s face brightens and her heart skips wildly. “Why, I can easily punch holes in this letter’s integrity. Two words, sir,” Kat cutely mocks Mr. McKenzie, “The date. It says ’87. Jane Hopkins couldn’t have written this in 1887. She died in 1867. That’s a twenty-year difference. I can prove it. She’s buried here at Sea Oaks. There is a lovely memorial for her and her husband.”

  Bryce spins round. “What are you saying?”

  “She died before the date on this letter. That’s what I’m saying. This can’t be our Jane Hopkins. It has to be some sort of hoax.”

  “I suppose the Lover’s Eye ring is a hoax too,” Bryce points out.

  “Well,” Kat considers. She twists the Lover’s Eye off her pinkie finger and folds the pages of the letter into their original shape. Returning them to the box from whence they came, she momentarily studies the matching eye on the lid. It is staring at her like it knows a great secret.

  “Her grave,” Bryce says, making Kat jump. He watches her finish what she is doing, “Are you sure?”

  “As sure as the wind blows. Really, Mr. McKenzie, time travel?” Kat scoffs. She is thinking she let this man into her home, introduced him to her family, and exposed Wyatt to him. An icy tremor runs through her the likes of nothing she has experienced before.

  “You don’t have anything to be afraid of . . . Kat.” Bryce uses her name in a gentle whisper. The degree of uncertainty on her kind face bothers him. “I think under the circumstances it’s about time you call me Bryce,” he smiles.

  “Listen, Kat, I promise to answer all your questions. But first, you must take me to Jane, uh, to her resting place.” Bryce is amazed at his fortitude. Especially when his insides have just climbed up into his throat. Not able to wait, he crosses the room and heads down the steep narrow steps from the attic to the second-floor landing.

  “The date is on the headstone, but we have documentation. It’s in books,” Kat calls after him.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “But it’s raining.” Kat follows the man, thinking she should let him go down the stair and out the door — never to return. She should lock the house tight and forget this whole thing ever happened.

  “I don’t care. This can’t wait,” Bryce says over his shoulder, headed for his hat. “I’ll find it myself. Some fresh air will do me good.”

  In split-second judgment, something Kat is prone to whether right or wrong, “You’re not going anywhere without me, Bryce McKenzie. I’ll get an umbrella.”

  Chapter 41

  AS IN INDIAN

  “All preparations are made. We leave in the morning.” Matt dives under the covers, his body still warm from a hot bath. “Burr,” he shivers. “I think we are in for a cold winter.”

  “A fireplace never heats the room evenly. I miss central air and heat,” Jane comments, and watches Matt flinch at her ‘future’ reference. Sh
e lays her book aside and sits erect, using her pillows as support and a cushion against the massive 18th Century carved headboard that is touted as a Hopkins family heirloom. The covers are pulled up to her waist and she absently smoothes the wrinkles.

  They are sleeping in Matt’s parent’s bedroom — Anna’s room in the Savannah family home. Being here brings back memories of tragedy and great sorrow. The time when Jane comforted her grieving friend who had just received word her husband died a soldier’s death on some desolate battlefield.

  “So, what is this tasty morsel of news you wish to share?” Propped on one elbow, Matt eyes his wife warily.

  Jane finishes braiding her hair in record time. He observes her fingers fumble ever so briefly when she ties a yellow ribbon at the tip. It is easy to judge her moods. She is as transparent as her sheer nightdress that boldly cleaves to her skin, never ceasing to drive his lustful desire.

  “I met someone today, a man named Mr. Dodd who works for Mr. Bagger. His real name is White Owl,” Jane says.

  Matt’s forehead furrows and he immediately grunts his alarm. “White Owl—”

  “I know, as in Indian. Although I prefer to say Native American. Now please, let me finish.” Jane scoots forward and crosses her legs under the clean linens that smell of Georgia sunshine and fresh breezes off the Savannah River. “This is a good story, I think. You don’t have a thing to worry about,” she grins.

  Jane tells Matt about White Owl’s visit and describes his chance encounter with an injured and feverish Bryce McKenzie somewhere in the Virginia wilderness. Matt already knows much of Bryce’s story — about his saving General Stonewall Jackson’s life and how she gave him a key from the mysterious Celtic box that returned him to the future. At least, she hopes he is back in the year 2013.

  Having a platform to talk at length to an attentive husband pleases Jane to no end. She is impressed by and appreciates Matt’s gentlemanly-like courtesy. She also notes the subtle working of his jaw that indicates valid concern and great self-control. While explaining White Owl’s relationship to Bryce McKenzie and how he recognized her from a picture Bryce carried, Jane is glad to see Matt’s instincts to protect-and-defend eventually drain away.

  “So, what are we to do, wife?” Matt finally asks, trusting this matter to Jane’s good judgment. It is something he has come to rely on.

  “You are really sweet to let me talk this out, Matt.” Jane sings praises where they are due. Matt’s calm acceptance never ceases to amaze her. She thinks modern-thinking husbands of the future would be in total denial and utterly thrown for a loop by her bizarre circumstances. After all, who can fathom being in bed with a time traveler. Literally, she smiles to herself.

  “You weren’t home to consult,” she begins tentatively, not wanting to completely usurp Matt’s authority and his very Victorian position as master of his domain.

  “Go on,” Matt coaches.

  Jane’s heart flutters slightly at withholding a few impactful details of her encounter with White Owl. She intentionally leaves out the part about his vision of a young girl who bears her likeness. It is entirely too disconcerting, even for her at the moment, and could potentially discredit White Owl in Matt’s eyes. She prefers to wait and see if this prophecy proves itself to be true.

  “Well, he has a job here in town, but Native Americans in the mid-1800s don’t find it exactly easy to exist in civilized circles.” Jane makes air quotation marks with her fingers for the cultural behaviors she is entirely opposed to. “People can be prejudice, you know.”

  “The good citizens of Savannah, you mean,” Matt’s one eyebrow shoots upward.

  “Yes, the good Christian citizens of our beloved city. Oh, don’t act surprised or offended, Major Hopkins. You know people have strong opinions around here when it comes to a race of people they are trying to totally rid themselves of. They are prejudice about a lot of things. And, whoo-OOO-ooo,” Jane makes a scary, ghostly sound, “especially when it comes to Indians. It’s not just here, though. It can be just as bad in the future. I am sure in the 21st Century they get their share of rain dance, teepee, totem pole and buffalo jokes. It’s so mean-spirited.”

  Matt sighs, feeling another absorbing history or in this case a future lesson coming on.

  “Can you make your point,” he yawns into his hand and blinks slowly.

  “Well, so sorry to bore you,” Jane scoffs, coming up on her knees. This gets an immediate reaction from her husband who yanks her into his arms before she can object.

  “You are anything but boring, my dear,” Matt gazes into her eyes and bends his head to the silver-green pools of winter moss that tell she is incensed. Softly, he presses his lips to hers. She gasps when he deepens his kiss and he can feel her icy indignation melt around the edges. He takes care when drawing away, as she can administer a swift punch after he has recklessly tampered with her ego.

  Matt clears his throat and politely appeals, “If you please. This Mr. Dodd, White Owl, I must know the outcome.” He helps Jane unwind out of his embrace.

  “I wrote a letter to Captain McIntosh, asking him to help White Owl. That is, if things get a bit too oppressive up here. White Owl seemed open to the idea. He feels he has a connection to us, to me. It was the kind thing to do. And, what can I say, I like the man. I don’t think there’s a lying bone in his body.”

  “I am not so sure Captain McIntosh will entertain such an idea.”

  “Well, I sort of said you encouraged it,” Jane shrugs apologetically. “Besides, he just might be open to it when he learns Mr. Dodd’s ancestor traveled with Jack McIntosh and William Bartram. He might even have a story or two to share with Captain. You know how Captain loves anything and everything that has to do with his family tree. And then, of course, there’s my Lover’s Eye ring. I still can’t believe it is linked to a Mr. Dodd who lived long ago. I swear the shape of White Owl’s left eye and brow-line are a perfect match. Even more so, since we’ve both seen the opposing eye of Mr. Dodd on the lid of the Celtic box.”

  “Indeed. Nothing astounds me more. It is all too mystifying. It baffles a poor, unassuming man’s logic. There is still much we do not understand, nor will we ever, I imagine.”

  “So true,” Jane shakes the frustration of his words from her mind, and rubs the joint of her third finger. Her right hand feels naked without her ring.

  “My ring,” she continues. “I insisted White Owl keep it. He refused at first, but I convinced him it is further proof that he is tied to me. Captain, Anna, they will all recognize the Lover’s Eye at Sea Oaks. Anyway, White Owl finally said he was honored and would keep it safe until I returned.”

  “It sounds like this White Owl may be a permanent appendage.”

  “Ha, that’s one way of putting it,” Jane chuckles. “All I can say is, nothing surprises me these days. I’ve learned to go with the flow. Though, wouldn’t it be something, just once, to see the big picture—”

  “Instead of always being heads down in the weeds,” Matt finishes Jane’s thought.

  “True again.” Jane stretches out and makes a breathy yawning sound, “I’m tired.”

  “Yes, it has been a long day for us both.” Matt wets his fingers to snuff the flame on a candle by their bedside and adjusts his position to fold Jane into the crease of his body. The covers neatly wrap them in a cocoon of warm solace.

  “Your turn to stoke the fire tonight, sweetheart,” Jane reminds sleepily.

  “Agreed. Goodnight, my love.” Matt kisses the softness of her hair at the fiery crown of her head. He quickly realizes he is squeezing her too tight when his wife balks, “I’m really tired, now.”

  Softening his hold and feeling her squirm closer, his soul is gripped in darkness by an immobilizing fear of losing her. This is followed by a keen awareness of the unknown. Something he never gave a second thought to now drives him almost to madness.

  They may have the seeds of hope, the foretelling of events in their grasp, yet there sprouts another mystery. Thei
r future has become a living thing with a mind of its own — multi-faceted, brutally obstinate, and ever constant in eluding them at every turn. It is as unpredictable as the ambitious dance of enemy troops on a battlefield, sweeping this way and that, a host of tactics and maneuvers, of attacks and retreats, of victories and defeats. Even when they are certain of what will be, in a flash it is gone, changed forever.

  Before the coming of sleep, as Matt’s scattered thoughts slip away like grains of sand in an hourglass, he forms one conclusion. He will not fall victim to man’s folly. God alone is the sovereign ruler of their fate. There are no accidents in the universe. Tomorrow, they will cast off for Virginia. The sooner they get to General Lee’s headquarters the better.

  Chapter 42

  THE SS CREED

  “Oh, and get Phoebe, please,” Matt gives a hushed order to Mr. Collier in the hallway, before he pushes the bedroom door to.

  “Huh?” Jane stirs at her husband’s voice and movement about the room. His military hours are such that she often sleeps right through his comings and goings.

  “It’s time,” Matt gently rocks Jane’s shoulder again.

  “But I just fell asleep.”

  “We have a boat to catch.”

  “What? At night?” Jane scrubs her eyes with her knuckles. “I thought we were going to leave in the morning?”

  “It is morning, my dearest,” Matt tugs his boots on, stomps his feet a couple of times, and glances at his timepiece. “A quarter past twelve, to be exact. Now quickly,” he encourages. The urgent message delivered by courier from Captain Brighton had given them little time.

  When Phoebe slips into the room, he warns, “No light. Not even a candle. The glow of our fireplace will do. There’s no need to draw attention to the house. You never know who is slinking about at this hour.”

  “Yessah, Mistah Matt,” Phoebe nods and immediately turns her attention on Jane and what must be done. Jane’s clothes and accessories — her gloves, bonnet, travel bag and reticule — were laid out before bedtime.