by Barbara Best
“Yes dear, my old knee has flared up again. It always hurts like the dickens beforehand.”
“Well, Mattie’s feeling no pain,” Jane nods at the third passenger in their cozy compartment and smiles. Mattie has been slumped in one corner of the coach for most of the ride, fast asleep. Her head bobbing up and down and from side to side with every jarring bump, like the glow-in-the-dark Yoda bobblehead doll on her dad’s truck dashboard.
The road leaving out of town wasn’t so bad, but now the ground is uneven and full of potholes. Although they are making good time under the circumstances, by Jane’s modern-day comparison their pace is more attuned to a crawl. The going is extremely rough and dust is being stirred into great clouds by the horses out front. At first Jane thought it comical the way Mary held her lace handkerchief up to her nose and mouth. But before long Jane had joined in with her own square of fabric to try and keep her throat and lungs clear of the gritty airborne particles.
Nothing is sealed well. Jane thinks of all the energy-saving practices in her era. The caulking, weather-stripping, seals and special paints that are used to keep habitable dwellings and compartments well insulated and people comfortable and protected from the elements. The windows are closed, yet somehow the chilled air carries a mass as fine as talcum through every crack and crevice. They must be covered with it. The rain will be a welcome sight.
Not far into their flight from Savannah, the carriage violently pitched forward to the sound of “Whoa there . . . ho, ho, easy now” and their small band of hapless fugitives came to a grating halt.
Stationary, the full-throated chorus of amped-up tree frogs that were freaking over the first wave of moisture dominated the silence. Out her small window Jane could barely make out the mass of shifting gray forms through the dust they had kicked up. A large outfit of regulars had motioned them over. Weary, expressionless faces could only mean they had been marching a good while. Jane could hear a lot of coughing and spitting. When the men got the order to rest, a bunch of them fell right to the ground where they were standing. Others found trunks of trees to prop against, or gathered in small circles, shifting their weight from one foot to the other. How many miles, she wondered, and where were they going?
Mary’s driver Boss barked an order to his companion, who was riding shotgun up front and hopped down to report they should rest their horses for a time. In a low steady voice, he added, “If’n there be trouble, dat ole double-barrel shotgun of mine can throw out a lot o’ lead. Don’t worry ya-self none, now.” A generous portion of teeth reflected his confidence, “You is safe with me.”
Luckily the soldiers were southern boys and not much interested in who they were. One of the men asked Boss a few questions. The driver reciprocated by showing them their papers and another soldier, an officer, walked around to peer inside the carriage through the opened door.
“Evenin’ ma’am . . . miss,” he drawled, lifting his hat. “Pardon our intrusion . . . we will be on our way soon.”
“Good evening, major,” Mary smiled and bravely offered, “We have some water for your men. It is not much, but you are welcome to it.”
“No ma’am. Our canteens are filled to the brim from a creek we run up on a ways back. Thank you just the same.”
And that was pretty much it. In a short time and among a consensus of grunts and groans, the exhausted soldiers would eventually form again in close order and march in unison to the tired beat of a drum out into the night.
Jane is quiescent. With Mary, she never feels rushed or forced to express a feeling or thought at a moment’s notice. Mary had instructed Jane in the early days of their burgeoning friendship, just because someone speaks to you does not mean you are obliged to fire back words that, so many times, are meaningless. Mary would often advise, make it a habit to listen, dear.
Without a doubt, people talk way too much in the future. Excessive talk, chatter, and rant are entirely the norm. And if the constant spout of words and sounds is not coming from one’s mouth, it comes by other sources, be it human or electronic, which automatically fill in gaps with an incessant and inescapable buzz.
In this time, Jane has slowed her pace considerably and learned to enjoy long moments of silence. Think before you speak. And when you do say something, make it well worthwhile.
It is a while before Jane decides to say anything in response to Mary’s commiseration about her lost family and home. She carefully chooses the right words. There’s plenty to say, but Jane first tries to understand her true feelings inside and the serious thought behind the words before sharing.
Finally, Jane turns to her friend in the dim light, “You mentioned my family, my home. What can I say? I totally miss them. It is hard to believe . . . it’s been almost a year now.” Jane clears her dusty throat in mid-sentence and continues, “It’s a different kind of miss, though. It’s not like they are dead or anything. It could be they aren’t even born yet. But to me, I think it is more like they are living right now, just as I am, we are all living, only in different dimensions, on a different plane.
“In my time, the twenty-first century, there is a lot of speculation about the existence of dimensions, time travel, and wormholes in space. The crazy fact is no one has ever been able to prove a thing. The general public knows nothing more about it a hundred and fifty years into the future, than the people here do now. That is, until I came along and happened to punch a hole in theory by passing from one time to another. And . . . have lived to tell about it.”
The familiar memories of home wash over Jane, fresh, cutting. She struggles with the old anxiety that always comes with reliving her experience, although it is not as bad any more. It’s just that her story has been bottled up for so long. She had had a trial run with Tessie. That was a long time ago and nothing much became of it other than a solid bond between the two of them she greatly appreciated. She needed more time and luckily she has had it. She would certainly not have been ready for the outcome and has been very fortunate to live these many months of adjustment to a new life, basically in peace.
Jane tries to keep her voice down, not wanting to disturb Mattie, who is making amusing little snorting noises. At least somebody can sleep. “Once I got over the short-lived idea of this being a crazy dream of some kind in which I would wake any minute, I began to think it had to be a freak accident. That is, until my jewelry box and my ring showed up.” Jane holds up her right hand and wiggles her fingers where the rose gold briefly catches light.
“Getting this ring and the box is such a surprise, that now I am convinced there may be more going on here. Anyway, it’s weird to even put this stuff into words because it doesn’t compute. And if this turns out to be some big scheme or scientific experiment that I am to take part in for some unknown purpose . . . some far-fetched plan that goes beyond imagination or reality as we know it, then . . . why me? Why me, for Pete’s sake!” Jane shakes her head, and whispers, “I just don’t get it, Mary, and frankly, it scares me to death to even talk about it.”
Mary has lived a lot of years, but there is no chance on God’s green earth she would have ever imagined such an incredible and stimulating tale. If it had been anyone but Jane who had shared such a story, she would have laughed herself silly.
“I understand. Time is truly a wonderful and amazing thing. You are an inspiration my dear and, I have faith, you will not be given trials beyond what you can endure,” Mary offers piously. She hopes these few humble, heartfelt words are fitting. And makes a conscious effort to thwart any temptation to ask Jane what compute and the odd reference to a worm’s hole mean. Instead she simply reaches over and pats Jane’s knee.
Mary fully understands the magnitude of Jane’s situation and shutters to think what is to become of it all. Now that she knows what is behind Jane’s strange mannerisms and overly developed intellect, Mary has so many questions to ask — about now, about the war, about the future. And if this gets out, undoubtedly, others will have questions too, and aplenty. For now, ho
wever, she is only concerned for this courageous young woman’s well-being, and thinks perhaps it best not to press. All in good time.
In silent prayer, Mary lifts her chin heavenward. Lord, I believe it is your will in all things and we are but an instrument of your great and perfect plan. Please keep us safe and give us the courage and wisdom to do what is right and good.
Jane watches Mary’s eyes travel up for a moment and then back down to her knitting. Mary once told Jane, knitting gave her a chance to think her own thoughts without hindrance. And much of the time she had her work in her hands, agile fingers moving through the stitches with precision. Mary is so skilled with her needles, that she once finished a lovely reticule for Jane during an animated conversation and without looking down once. Right now she is industrious in getting socks, dozens of them, to the troops.
After a while curiosity gets the best of Jane, “What are you thinking about?”
“Oh, I was just thinking about a prayer my mother taught me when I was a young girl.” There is a reflective pause before she begins, “God, allow me to accept what I cannot change, grant me the strength to change what I can, and give me the understanding to know the difference.”
Jane nods thoughtfully and smiles, showing a perfect row of straight white teeth from a lifetime of good dental hygiene and three years of braces. One thing is for sure, she couldn’t ask for a better friend. Mary always seems to know what to say in times of need and how to help Jane see things a little differently.
“I’ve heard that prayer before. It sounds similar to the Serenity prayer in my day. Goes to show there is no such thing as an original idea,” Jane chuckles.
After riding a while longer and seeing Jane’s sleepless eyes across from her, Mary lightly interjects, “You are going to like our cottage, Jane. My father built it a very long time ago as a gift to my mother. My mother always said it reminded her of England, her homeland. The cottage sits near a lovely creek in a dense pine forest at one corner of a vast property and plantation that has been in my family since before the Revolutionary war. Father called it, Tohidu. It is a Cherokee expression, which means a good peace. He said Tohidu was a special place he and my mother would go to restore body, mind, and spirit.
“Those two were very much in love,” Mary remembers with great pleasure. “My father was a skilled cabinetmaker by trade and an astute businessman. He built the cottage as a welcome surprise for my mother when they were first married. It was right before I came along. There were other children, of course, but I would be the only one to survive. The plantation house is long abandoned and fallen to ruin, but for sentimental reasons I have kept Tohidu like it was when I was a child. It is a lovely place. You will like it, dear. I am sure of it.”
Jane settles back and listens to Mary speak of her childhood as the minutes tick on. Being an only child of affluent parents, Mary was raised by her mother and dear governess Miss Wickes from Essex. She was instructed in the social graces and handiwork, well versed in the three R’s, and taught the accomplishments expected of a young lady. She was schooled in French, piano, painting, poetry, and the running of a household. A happy and sheltered childhood, Mary enjoyed excessive good health and speaks fondly of two indulgent and doting parents, who saw to it Mary received a liberal education for her time. At the age of sixteen, Mary was married to her colonel. “A joyful, blessed union and good match” is how she describes it.
Listening to Mary talk about her past soothes Jane’s nerves and keeps her from dwelling on the magnitude of her situation as they roll along. It is comforting to know Mary is here for her and ready to provide protection and emotional support.
“Your Confederate notes are safe with us,” Mary had whispered with a mischievous wink when they first set off on their journey. And there is a good chance Jane will need every bit of it, at least until the bottom drops out and the bills become worthless. But then she dares to venture, maybe Confederate money won’t end up being worthless after all. Apparently, opening up about her past in 2012 has sparked forbidden thoughts that Jane isn’t so sure about.
Jane is wrestling with the gamut of possibilities for the next chapter of her life’s saga. She imagines Matthew is wrestling with their historic and pivotal event much the same as she. So what will you do with it all, Matthew Hopkins? What will he do with Jane’s amazing story? She trusts he will come upon a logical conclusion that offers the most practical results. Jane also hopes desperately that he will listen to her point of view. Certainly their relationship has changed and she deserves that much.
Funny, Jane until now has been mostly on the receiving end of her relationship with the man. He has had her back all the while. From the start it was Matthew, and Colonel Olmstead, who concocted the story that would free her from a captured garrison. It was Matthew who ensured she had a lovely place to live and rallied the support of his family on her behalf. Matthew had protected her from harm when authorities would question her, and may have saved her from an even bigger catastrophe this night. In return, she has discouraged his attentions and hardly spent a minute getting to know the real person inside. Well, she may not really know him, but one thing is for sure, she trusts him completely. Plain and simple, Matthew will do what is best for her and all of them. For whatever reason, she knows this to be so.
You’re not such a bad guy after all, Matthew Hopkins. The corners of her mouth turn up to expose obscure dimples and release a good amount of feel-good endorphins. Jane tilts her head back and enjoys a brief hiatus from her thoughts to enjoy the mental state she is in at this moment. After all, this moment is all she, or any of them have — nothing more, nothing less.
“The rain always quiets things down. Why don’t you try and rest, Jane. We have a good ride still ahead of us.” Mary says, enjoying the comforting tempo of her knitting. They had just passed through a heavy shower, which washed away the coarse dust and sand that plagued them.
“It’s hard to close my eyes,” Jane breathes in the fresh Georgia pine and hears the brittle crunch of needles and twigs under the carriage wheels that leave behind tracks of red clay-colored puddles as they go. “I love the sweet smell of rain. Don’t you? So clean and refreshing.” She catches a mild scent of smoke from a distant fire hanging low against the wet earth. Perhaps from someone’s dwelling hidden in the forest or a military camp somewhere. Pleasant. Jane thinks about all the men and boys and their families, who are predestined to suffer atrocities in this terrible war — thousands of soldiers cut down on battlefields, even more starved in prison camps, or withered away in unkempt hospitals. The worst of this war is yet to come and words cannot describe the horrors they must abide.
Maybe they will have a chance now, Jane boldly anticipates with a newfound freedom, allowing thoughts of promise and change. She shifts in her seat in a futile attempt to get more comfortable and appreciates the warmth of the heavy wool lap robe and foot warmer at her feet. A hot little ball of orange fur, a young kitten, is curled up in the folds of Jane’s skirt sleeping serenely, its tiny body rising and falling in the soothing rhythm of life. Just as they were leaving the Marshall estate, Mary had handed the adorable mewing creature to her wrapped in a small towel, saying it was a gift and forbidding Jane to protest or question it. It’s strange timing for a gift, but Jane has learned Mary is intuitive and usually has a very good reason for her actions.
While absentmindedly rubbing ears and running fingers through the unbelievably soft coat of her new companion, it dawns on Jane that somehow she is not scared any more. It’s amazing how the mind works. You can only be scared so much and then, all of a sudden there is a shift in the tracks, a flip of a switch and scared becomes more like meeting a challenge. It becomes a test of strength, an experiment in endurance, adaptability and skill, a fantastic adventure.
Some of Madame Néve’s unsettling words come to mind. Is this the long journey of discovery she alluded to? Is this perchance a rare coincidence where fact and prediction collide? Again, there are no answers to Jane’s
questions. And now you have conveniently disappeared without a trace, leaving doubt and speculation, she accuses. Madame Néve . . . who are you really and what are you up to?
Yes, she is sailing into uncharted waters all right. Set adrift during one of the most wasteful, illogical and wicked times in their nation’s history. But you know what? That’s okay. It will have to be okay. And Jane must deal with her own life events as they occur. After all, isn’t it the same now as it would be anywhere else? Jane may have the grand scope of history within her grasp, the unlocked mystery of the country’s future in total recall, yet as for the mystery of her own life? She has nothing. Not knowing what her life will bring is undeniably the biggest question mark of all.
Not knowing. Not knowing what will happen from one millisecond to the next must be what makes us human, Jane ponders with uncommon gravity. It must be, after all, our natural condition. With a quiet sigh of acceptance, she gazes down at the tightly curled shape of her kitten, which is purring to her all is well . . . all is well.
So it seems, it doesn’t really matter who you are or what place you exist. It doesn’t matter what infinitesimal speck of space and time you take up in the universe. Not knowing is the necessary part of life that helps us all take the moment and make the best of it. It is the cosmic state of being that intentionally keeps us off-balance, opens doors, forces us to change, teaches us to have faith, and feeds our hopes and dreams. Jane embraces this revelation and finds strength in it. There are no guarantees, no matter how much time you spend convincing yourself you have everything all locked up and your life laid out all cushy and cozy.
And how will she deal with the unknown? It’s simple. One thing Jane can predict with certainty and without Madame Néve’s ridiculous Tarot cards or any other prophetic remedy to help — she will survive and she will thrive. Whatever is to happen will happen. Whatever choices she has to make, she will make them. This is no longer a fantasy world in which she lives. This is real life, real people, and she has a place in it. Whatever comes her way, she is ready to meet it head on.
