Spirit of the Ruins

by Jenny Lykins

  Stephen, Jacob, and Magnolia tried to get him to give up his quest, if only for a little while, but if he gave up, even for a split second, he might never see Callen, his brother, and even little Connor, again.

  He worried himself sick about what they were doing, how they were faring. They wouldn’t give up and leave him behind. He knew both Callen and Daniel well enough to be certain of that. But they couldn’t hang around the ruins forever, waiting for that damned window in time to open up and spit him out. Daniel didn’t have enough money, even with his debit card. What would happen to them there when they ran out of money? What would happen to them if he never got home?

  On the morning of the fourth day, after he’d attempted once more to pass to his time, he made a decision he’d hoped never to make.

  Whether or not the idea that had slowly, reluctantly come to him over the past days would work, he might never know, but now he had to try.

  He went in search of a canning jar, braved the bedroom – and the memories – where he and Callen had found Heaven together, then prayed that she would look in the column, just once. If she looked once, and if his plan worked, he could give her perhaps a small degree of the peace he had failed to find for himself.

  *******

  Callen dragged on her clothing, the hot shower having done nothing to lift her spirits or revive her. She spent most of her waking hours now fighting back tears and trying not to let it show. Exhaustion weighed on her, as if a thousand pounds of worry settled over her. Dan, at first positive and showing little concern, now had dark circles under his eyes, and Callen had caught him more than once staring off into space, unshed tears hovering on his lashes.

  He’d been so mature, though. Ty would be so proud. He’d taken the car out the previous evening, coming back to the room several hours later with a handful of money. He’d gone to a nearby restaurant and gotten a job serving food, and the cash had been his gratuities. His debit card was not going to cover their expenses, he’d said. He’d taken the job so they could stay there and wait for Ty.

  She swallowed hard at the thought. Please, God, don’t let the wait be long.

  Daniel had found them a clean little inn, or motel as he called it, which offered free breakfast for its guests. Though the bed had been comfortable, she’d only managed to sleep in fitful spurts each night, and even then she’d dreamed of spending a lifetime by the columns of her old home, waiting for a husband who was once again lost to her.

  By the time they reached the Windsor grounds the fourth morning, Callen could barely force herself to look at the secret entry, so fearful was she that her dream…her nightmare…would become a reality. She hovered nearby, avoiding the actual pillar, unable to bear looking once more into its tomb-like interior. But just before dusk, unable to ignore its pull a moment longer, she asked Daniel to shove open the panel one more time, and then she stepped inside.

  Blood pounded to her brain until she thought she might faint.

  He’d been there! Someone had been there.

  An old canning jar with a corroded lid sat in the very center of the darkened chamber’s dirt floor. A thick layer of dust and filmy cobwebs draped the clear blue jar, and she could see something light and odd-shaped inside.

  “Ty!” Her voice caught as she lifted the small container, pulling it from its prison of cobwebs. When the lid held firm, she turned and handed the jar to Daniel, her hands shaking.

  His young muscles flexed as he worked at the tight seal, unscrewing the zinc lid, then handing the jar back to her.

  A yellowed piece of paper, folded twice, fell into her palm when she shook the jar to empty it.

  The paper lay in her hand and she stared at it, her chest tightening, her lungs aching for breath when she forgot to breathe. A cold sweat formed on her skin.

  She wouldn’t allow herself to think. To hope. Or to dread.

  “What does it say?”

  Dan’s soft voice gave her such a start, she nearly dropped the fragile letter.

  “I…I don’t know.”

  With infinite care, she unfolded the stiff note, written, she now recognized, on paper from Tylar’s sketchbook with one of his black artist pencils. While Daniel hovered over her shoulder, together they read the letter written to them so very, very long ago.

  Dear Callen and Daniel,

  I miss you both. Dear God, I miss you both. And I love you. I love you so much. But this has to be brief. I know of no other way to preserve this letter.

  Stephen is safe, and we have come to find that we can actually tolerate each other. But something went wrong when we tried to pass through the column. I’m nearly insane from trying, but nothing I’ve done works. All the rubble has yet to be cleared. Perhaps then we can pass. But we have to face the odds now. We have to expect the worst.

  Callen shook her head in denial as she read.

  Daniel, take Callen home. Talk to Sanford Rayson about Connor’s surgery and tell him they have no insurance. He’ll work something out. Tell everyone, EVERYONE, that I’m on a shoot in the Far East and that Callen is there with you as temporary guardian.

  Everything, the house, car, bank accounts, are all in both our names, Dan. The house and car are paid for, and our savings should last if you use it wisely, until you can have me declared legally dead and collect the life insurance. You’re the beneficiary in my will, as well.

  Callen gasped, then choked on a sob as the words pierced her heart.

  Sell my cameras and equipment if you need to. Hugh McDowell, Celia’s brother, will get you a fair price. The money from the gear could last you another year.

  His handwriting grew shakier, harder to read, even as the words blurred through Callen’s tears.

  Callen, Dan will take care of you and Connor. Trust him. He’s more like me than he wants to admit.

  Leave now for Memphis. Get Connor’s surgeries started now. Don’t waste time or money waiting for me. As long as I have strength and draw breath, I’ll work to find a way home, but do not sacrifice your happiness, now or in the future, for a memory.

  I love you,

  Ty

  *******

  He’d swung from one extreme to another. From hope to despair. Now he refused to even look at the pillar. He couldn’t. He couldn’t look at it and wonder, hope, pray. He had to put it from his mind or he’d go insane. He was so damned close now, he was knocking at the asylum’s door.

  The days turned into a week, and then two. He kept his mind blank, working from dawn until dusk, clearing the rubble from the site alongside Stephen, with whom he had reached at least a one-sided truce. Stephen still badgered him about Callen and Connor’s whereabouts, but as the two men worked together, Ty felt Stephen’s trust grow in grudging increments. Ty had no doubt, though, that if he took even one step off Windsor land, Stephen would trail him like a dog following a bone.

  At night Ty fell into a coma-like sleep in one of the former slave cabins. He avoided the overseer’s cottage as diligently as he avoided that damned column.

  Jacob and Magnolia fussed over him with worry. He had no appetite, no interest in anything. He ate enough to keep from starving, but each bite he took went down like a rancid piece of beef. In no time his jeans hung around his hips and he had to tighten his belt a notch or two every few days just to keep them around his waist, but every muscle in his body stood out in definition from twelve or more hours a day of manual labor.

  “I have seen happier looking corpses on the battlefield,” Stephen said one morning at breakfast while Ty pushed his food around his plate.

  Ty blinked slowly, too emotionally numb to care about a witty comeback.

  “Thank you,” he simply said, leveling his gaze at Stephen.

  They had cleared as much of the blackened, burned rubble as they could from the site. In the recesses of his mind a little panic stirred. What would he do when all the work was done? What would keep him from going insane?

  Footsteps crunched on the path, coming from the woods. Ty looked up, e
xpecting to see one of the many neighbors who stopped by regularly to share what they had, but he didn’t recognize this odd little man.

  “Mistah Chalmers!” Magnolia jumped up and poured another cup of what passed for coffee, then met the man as he joined them in the garden. “I ain’t seen you in a coon’s age. Sit down and have some coffee whilst I get you some breakfast.”

  He waved his hand at Magnolia, motioning for her to sit.

  “Thank you, no,” he said. “I have come with a gift for Ty.”

  Ty. Not Tylar. Not Mr. McCall. Ty.

  The man had a light French accent, but he undoubtedly had a black parent. Though his eyes were a clear, pale gray, his skin was only a shade or two lighter than Jacob’s.

  Without any fanfare, or wasting any words with explanations, the man carrying a small lantern, already lit, dropped a lumpy bag with a metallic chink atop the table.

  “For the boy,” he said simply. “But it will not be enough. Your patron underestimates the cost of the surgery.” Ty was still struggling to absorb the words when the man uttered, “Come,” then walked toward the overseer’s cottage. Ty followed, along with Stephen and the others, as the man they called Chalmers walked inside, climbed the stairs to the attic, and made his way directly to the darkest corner under the eaves. In the light of the dull glow from the lantern, he went straight to a leather-bound trunk, lifted the lid, pulled out a stiff piece of paper the size of a postcard, then handed it to Ty. “This will cover the rest of the cost of the surgery.”

  “Judas Priest,” Ty breathed when he looked at the images staring back at him. Two men. One an older version of Stephen, dressed as a Union officer. The other was Abraham Lincoln, hatless, handing a rifle to the young soldier. The barest hint of a smile curved Lincoln’s lips.

  The picture Callen had mentioned!

  “This is a Matthew Brady!” Ty breathed. “Of Lincoln! Smiling!” He looked up at Chalmers. “It’s unique! It’ll be worth a fortune in—” He hesitated.

  “Years to come?” the old man finished for him.

  Their eyes met. The old man knew. Somehow he knew.

  “How will that picture pay for a surgery?” Stephen asked, cynical as ever as he stared at all of Garrett’s effects.

  “It’ll be worth a lot of money in the future.” Ty ignored Stephen’s roll of his eyes. “But it’s yours. I mean, it’s part of Garrett’s estate.”

  Stephen took the picture, looked at it for several long, hard seconds.

  “You take it.” He shoved it back into Ty’s hand. “I’d rather remember him like that.” He nodded toward an oval portrait leaning against a joist, the man in the picture the epitome of the Old South that had died.

  Without a word, the little old man turned and left the attic, and everyone followed him down the steps, out of the house, and back to the table with their cups of coffee growing cold.

  Chalmers sat the small lantern, still lit, on the table. He stared at Ty for a long, silent moment, murmured, “Thank you,” with a reminiscent smile, then turned and wandered back into the woods.

  “Hey! Waitaminute! How’d you know my name?” Ty called out. “Who’s the patron? What the heck is this lantern for? And what are you thanking me for?”

  The little man kept walking until the woods swallowed him up. A few weeks ago Ty would have run after him, found out what he was talking about, but now he merely watched the man disappear, then sank back onto the bench. He looked at Magnolia, then Jacob, then Stephen.

  “Who the hell was that?”

  Jacob slid the lantern in front of Ty.

  “That be Pierre Chalmers. He gots ‘the sight,’ and if he brings you a gift, son, you’d do well to use it.”

  “The sight?” Ty almost snorted, then remembered that not so long ago he would have done the same if someone had said he would time travel. “Well, what am I supposed to do with this?” He lifted the burning lantern. “I hardly need it to see right now.”

  Jacob nodded once. “Unless you was to go into someplace dark.”

  Ty’s gaze almost slid to the pillar. Almost. But he still couldn’t stand the sight of it. If he went back through the base, only to emerge to the same scene…

  Stephen made the quiet sound of a chicken clucking.

  Ty’s gaze jerked to his brother-in-law, whose eyes narrowed in challenge to Ty’s glare.

  Without another thought, Ty slid the Matthew Brady into his shirt pocket, tucked the bag of coins into his jeans, snatched the metal handle of the lantern, then marched to the cellar side of the column. With one angry shove, he pushed open the panel, stepped inside, straddled the jar he’d placed there, then yanked on the opposite handle. Before he ever stepped outside the chamber, he could see the deep front lawn of Windsor, the same front lawn he’d already seen a hundred times.

  He stared at the sight as the glimmer of hope he hadn’t even realized he still held flickered out like a candle in a hurricane. He slammed the panel closed and staggered back from the force of his misery. Bricks and mortar on the inside wall dug into his back.

  “Oh, Callen,” he whispered. “Daniel.” Their names now tasted like names of the dead on his tongue. He swallowed hard, fought the complete desolation, then fell to his knees when the agony proved too much to bear. The lantern landed on the dirt floor next to the jar with his message. It was all Ty could do not to pick the damned “gift” up and smash it against the smoky walls.

  He sat back in the dirt, breathed hard, willed away the damnable burning in his eyes.

  “You still in there, McCall, or did the magic lantern work?”

  Ty heard the crunch of rubble as Stephen walked around inside the burned out house.

  “Leave me the hell alone, Windsor,” Ty growled. “If you value your life at all, you will leave me the hell alone!”

  He raked the heels of his hands across his eyes, then stood, leaning over to snatch up the lantern. Its glow illuminated the darkened shadows of the chamber, falling across his wallet, which lay in the deepest recesses of a corner.

  Automatically he felt his back pocket, only to find it empty, with the outer corner torn. He hadn’t even realized the wallet had been missing. Connor’s shoe had caught on his pocket…

  It must have fallen out then.

  When he picked up the billfold, the tiny daguerreotype slid from within. He would have hated to have lost that keepsake, even if the rest of the contents were worthless in this time.

  As he straightened and tucked the wallet safely into a front pocket, he heard the sound of a cow bell. And then a moo.

  And then a horn honking in the distance.

  A chill ripped along his spine, slamming into his brain with dizzying force.

  He spun around, flinging the panel wide. No!

  Yes!

  “Windsor!” he bellowed. “Magnolia! Jacob!”

  Stephen arrived first, with the others only moments behind.

  “What?” Stephen barked, looking through the column as if he couldn’t see the cow pasture that had once been his front lawn.

  “Look!” Ty pointed, but Stephen shook his head.

  “I’m looking! What am I looking for?”

  Ty grabbed him by the shoulder and squeezed.

  “Now look!”

  Stephen blinked, then his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.

  “Oh, my G—”

  “Don’t you be blasphemin’, Mistah Stephen. What the devil you two looking at?” Magnolia poked her head into the base, with Jacob peering over her shoulder.

  “Grab their hands,” Ty instructed.

  Stephen felt for their hands, never once taking his eyes from the view in front of him. Magnolia gasped and Jacob whispered, “Lordy, lordy.” They both pulled their hands free.

  “We done seen all we need,” Magnolia said, backing away. “You boys go on. You go with our blessin’ and find yo family. And you give ‘em our love when you gets there. Now git!”

  “Ty!”

  “Callen,” he breathed at the
sound of her voice. “Callen!” He ran to her then, pulling Stephen with him, then letting go and running toward the wife he thought never to see again. “Callen!”

  Their lips met as he scooped her into his arms and spun her around. She laughed and cried at the same time, showering his cheeks, his mouth, his neck, with kisses.

  “I told you to go home!” He spoke against her lips. “Didn’t you get my letter?”

  She rubbed her nose against his, held his face, kissed his lips.

  “You should know me better than that, after a hundred and fifty years,” she murmured against his mouth.

  He’d never felt anything so wonderful, and never been so happy to have been disobeyed.

  “Do me! Do me!”

  Ty stopped spinning and looked up to see Daniel running with Connor in his arms. He let go of Callen long enough to squeeze the breath from his brother, then picked up Connor and tossed him into the air before spinning him around in circles.

  “Stephen!” Callen raced to her brother for a huge hug. “What happened?” She turned back to Ty. “How did you find your way back?”

  Ty shook his head, at a total loss to explain. He set Connor on the ground, who giggled and then toddled drunkenly toward his uncle, crowing “Unca Steeban!” with delight.

  Ty looked at Stephen, then back at Callen, not quite knowing where to begin.

  “I pulled Stephen from the fire and got him to the cellar, but when we walked through the column, we just came out on the other side of the burning house.” Ty grabbed his wife and held her to him. “I nearly went insane. Nothing I did worked.” He told her of the past two weeks, of stepping through the chamber hundreds of times, of sending his message, of the visit by that odd little man.

  “He gave me the means to pay for Connor’s surgery, and a lantern.” Ty shook his head with a shrug. “And then he thanked me.” He gave her another squeeze, afraid to let go of her. “I took the lantern and tried to walk through the column again, but it didn’t work. Then I found my wallet on the floor in the corner. It must have fallen out when I handed Connor to you that night.” He dug the wallet from his pocket, then pulled out the daguerreotype. “This must be my lucky charm,” he said, “because right after I found it, the portal opened.” He stopped and cocked his head. “I never would have seen it without that lantern.”