by Connie Lacy
“She heard your unspoken words of parting,” he said, taking my hand in his.
“I hope this lifts the burden of guilt from your shoulders,” Eric said. “Since you’re descended from Degataga, it was apparently predestined that you would intervene.”
“I think Degataga would’ve killed Jonah without my help.”
“But without you, he would probably have been hanged for murder, assuming they caught him. Then how would Amadahy have kept the farm? And if he was forced to flee, same thing – she couldn’t have kept the land. If she fled with him, she would’ve lost the land that way. All three scenarios would’ve resulted in losing the farm. Meaning you’d never have been born.”
“I don’t know,” I said, sipping my wine.
“And those gold nuggets allowed them to buy Ginny, keeping her from being sold to a plantation.”
“True.”
“Plus, you made friends with the Berrymans. I mean, like Amadahy said, Mrs. Berryman interceded on their behalf with the sheriff. And they used the gold to buy the tools that allowed them to make a go of it. Plus, I bet that letter you wrote the sheriff helped grease the wheels for them to be accepted.”
“Hm.”
“One more thing,” he said. “What you and your grandmother did when Jonah pulled the trigger may have meant the difference between Degataga murdering that son of a bitch and killing him in self-defense. Your grandmother made the ultimate sacrifice. But it was a sacrifice that allowed them to have the land and each other.”
I took a deep breath, considering.
“You deserve a lot of credit, Kathryn.”
“Well, it was a team effort. If it hadn’t been for Mallory’s suspicions about me being abused, she never would’ve driven to Athens to find Nana and take her to the river. If they hadn’t shown up, I guess I would’ve taken that bullet.”
He grunted, pulling me closer.
“Of course, it was Nana who found Amadahy in the first place,” I said. “She’s the one who led me to the time portal. And I wonder about those dreams she had about her Grandma cooking figs and trying to tell her something.”
“Gives me chills,” he said.
“And you helped too.”
“Not much.”
“Eric, it was you who made me risk traveling through the portal to come back to our time. I wanted you to return but I couldn’t stand the thought of being without you.”
Which made him tug me onto his lap for some serious kissing that led us to adjourn to the bedroom in short order.
“I think it was fate,” he whispered, as we lay wrapped in each other’s arms.
~
Mom, Jeannette, Eric and I walked single file. Far from civilization, it was almost like we’d gone back in time again. All we could hear was the crunching of leaves and twigs beneath our feet and the chirp and trill of birds in the branches above us. We walked from the cottage to the river, then turned and traveled in the direction I remembered taking when we transported Nana’s body to her final resting place.
The heat slowed us down, along with a few zigzags as I got my bearings. But finally, we reached the large boulders I remembered.
When we rounded the big rocks, I recognized the peaceful place where Amadahy had chanted the Cherokee songs of lamentation over Nana’s grave. Since my last visit, more rock mounds had been added, along with small granite headstones.
Eric stood close beside me as we read the names carved into the markers, now eroded by time.
“There,” he said, pointing at three mounds, all in a row.
We moved closer, squatting down so we could make out the inscriptions.
The one on the left read: Isham Barnes 1818 – 1839. The middle one was inscribed: Amadahy “Forest Water” Barnes 1822 – 1895. The engraving on the marker to the right said: Degataga “Standing Together” Barnes 1821 – 1895.
Emotionally, it was incomprehensible that they were dead. I’d just been with them. They were young and strong, their whole lives ahead of them.
“That’s the most romantic sight I’ve ever seen,” Eric whispered.
I wiped my tears.
“She was laid to rest between two good men who loved her,” he said. “And, judging from the dates, it looks like Degataga and Amadahy may have died together. What more could you ask?”
I leaned my head against his shoulder.
“Which one is Mother’s?” Mom said, her voice uncharacteristically quiet.
I looked around, trying to see the spot in my mind’s eye where we buried Nana. Then I recalled how the large boulders looked from where I’d stood with Amadahy and Degataga. That’s how I found it. I knelt down to see the timeworn marker: Edith “Edie” GoingBack Died 1840. Below that was something carved in the Cherokee Syllabary.
“It says ‘Old Beloved Grandmother,’” Eric said.
I ran my fingers over the words. Mom knelt beside me, Jeannette standing behind us with Eric.
“She’s really here?” Mom whispered.
“Yes,” I said.
We remained still for a long time, no one wanting to break the silence. Gradually, I became aware of sweet birdsong all around us. It was as if the birds were providing music for our private memorial service. Which reminded me of Degataga’s flute – the mournful Cherokee music he played as we returned to the farm after burying Nana.
Sitting cross-legged on the ground, I pulled out my phone, searched online and found what I was looking for – a Cherokee Indian musician playing a lovely song on a flute. The music enveloped us as we remembered the brave woman who saved Amadahy, Degataga and me, as well as a whole bunch of other people whose names were on that family history.
We listened until the song faded and then Jeannette spoke softly.
“I know Edie is loving this.”
~
Mom contacted the authorities, reporting that Nana was missing and might’ve fallen into the river because of her dementia. Mallory convinced the boss to let us do some stories on popular areas around Atlanta that used to belong to Native Americans. Following an MRI, I did some physical therapy for my partial rotator cuff tear. But I have a feeling the ache in my right shoulder will be with me for the rest of my life.
Nana left a couple of investments to divvy up between Mom and me. She left Jeannette her beloved little dog, Gracie, along with the Athens house and enough money for taxes and upkeep. And she willed her cottage and the acreage behind it that included the old farmstead to me.
After months of driving back and forth, Eric and I began searching online for a condo to share somewhere between Atlanta and Athens. Funny how neither of us wanted to sleep alone anymore.
“There’s one thing maybe we need to double check before we get too serious,” I said.
“What do you mean before we get too serious? I’m already too serious. As I’ve said about forty-seven times now, I think we oughta get married.”
“I’m deciding what kind of ceremony I want,” I said.
“On the beach. You bring some fresh corn, I’ll bring some liver and onions and we can mix our towels together.” And he chortled at his own cleverness.
“But first,” I said, “we need to double check…”
“Double check what?”
“I really hope it’s not a fly in the ointment.”
“What fly in what ointment?” he said, taking my hand and leading me to the bed.
“When we started dating you told me your family was from the same area of Madison County that my family is from.”
“Yeah?” He pulled me down with him so I was on top.
“And you said you had some American Indian DNA and some African DNA.”
“So?”
“You also told me about that family Bible saying you had a fifth great-grandmother who was half Cherokee born not long after the Trail of Tears.”
“Your point is?” he said, rubbing his hands over my body.
“My point is – I’m wondering if you might be descended from Ginny and Gawonii. In
which case, you and I might be related since Gawonii and Degataga were cousins.”
He groaned and kissed my shoulder.
“If that’s true…” I said.
“I don’t wanna know,” he said, his lips traveling from my shoulder to my neck.
“If it’s true, then you and I would be…”
“Extremely, exceedingly, exceptionally, extraordinarily, ultra-distant cousins.” He said, looking up at me.
I made a show of inspecting his eyes more closely.
“No,” he said, giving me a mock serious scowl, “we do not resemble in the slightest.”
I kissed his nose.
“You’re curvy,” he said, his hands gliding over my skin. “I’m not. You’re beauteous. I’m not.”
“I agree, you’re not curvy. But you are one hell of a beauteous man.”
The End
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Thank you for reading The Going Back Portal. If you enjoyed it, please help spread the word by posting a brief customer review on Amazon. Or tell your friends, in person or on social media. And I’d love for you to check out my other books!
A note from the author
Despite old family stories suggesting I have Cherokee Indian heritage, a DNA test shows not one drop of Native American blood. My knowledge of Cherokee culture comes from books and articles. Any misrepresentations or mistakes are my own.
About the author
Connie Lacy writes time travel fiction, speculative fiction, magical realism and historical fiction, all with a dollop of romance. She worked for many years in radio news as a reporter and news anchor. She lives in Atlanta. Check out her other books here:
www.Amazon.com/author/connie.lacy
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