by Lynne Gentry
“Anything else, Beetle Bug?”
“Tell me I’m not crazy.”
9
DESPITE THE FEAR CLAWING her stomach, Lisbeth went online and ordered Maggie an expedited passport. She finished inputting the CDC’s final analysis of the outbreak that had thankfully been contained, discharged the last measles patient, then turned off her phone. She spent the next few days holed up with a stack of Papa’s Roman history textbooks and the assortment of early-church history articles she found in the Vatican’s online library. If she was going to do this, she wasn’t going in blind.
Every page she read stung like rubbing alcohol poured on an open sore. The last day she’d spent in third-century Carthage, she’d stood on her captor’s balcony and screamed as her husband’s ship sailed into exile. When her mother sent her tumbling back through the time portal, back to life in the twenty-first century, Lisbeth had planned to return. But a difficult pregnancy had made international travel impossible and time travel totally out of the question. Once Maggie was born, she knew giving her daughter the normal, stable life she’d wanted as a child meant she and Cyprian were destined to die apart. Her husband would fade into the rugged African frontier, and eighteen hundred years later she would probably die of natural causes in some metropolitan nursing home.
She could kick herself now, but it had never occurred to her that Cyprian would be recalled to Carthage, make an indelible mark upon history, and leave a trail of extensive writings. So far she’d dug up at least eighty letters and fifteen treatises Cyprian had written during his exile and his subsequent return to Carthage. She’d pored over his work, intent on reading every word and carefully excavating the layers, no matter how painful.
Digging through the research confirmed her husband’s impressive rhetorical skills. She could almost see him pacing the carpets in his quiet library, his aristocratic forehead lined in concentration while Pontius frantically scratched his master’s frustration upon a scroll. What she didn’t see in the collection of missives to the church was the depth of kindness and compassion that had drawn her to Cyprian in the first place. Each carefully crafted entry touted a firm, legal perspective that obliterated any sign of the charity she’d always associated with him. Detailed accounts of the barbaric incursions upon the frontier borders, food shortages, and even the Christian persecutions were assessed against the empire’s volatile political climate.
Facts. Not feelings.
Even Cyprian’s tract De Mortalitate, the most expansive record of the plague she’d found to date, was little more than a stone-cold list of numbers and symptoms.
When her eyes became too bleary to read any more, she contemplated the reason for the abrupt change. Perhaps the death of Cyprian’s old mentor and friend Caecilianus had hardened his heart. She could understand how the time he spent wasting away in banishment could have soured him. What she didn’t want to consider was the possibility that her unexplained disappearance had also somehow played a part in this shift.
Lisbeth flipped the page of her notepad and scribbled down the plague symptoms on Cyprian’s list.
Red eyes. Inflamed and ulcerated throat. Burning fever. Unquenchable thirst. Rash over the entire body. Loss of sight for those who survived.
All of these symptoms she’d seen firsthand and would never forget, but it was good to reaffirm their fit with her original measles diagnosis. She studied the entry again. The mention of gangrene of the extremities and continual vomiting and diarrhea had her stumped. She reminded herself that Cyprian wasn’t a doctor. The queasy pallor his face took on every time he’d assisted her was the very reason she’d often spared him the gritty details. It wouldn’t surprise her if a few of his medical specifics were incorrect.
However, the variation made her wonder if this brief entry described one disease or two. An additional pathogen, maybe one even more sinister, that could have arrived after her departure? Bacterial infections loved to piggyback upon the weakened immune systems left in the wake of a virus attack. A double and unnecessary whammy. Like mowing down half-starved concentration camp survivors with an AK-47.
She skimmed the medical entry again. No mention of buboes or swellings. Bubonic plague could be eliminated. So what else could lay waste to a population in such a short amount of time? She jotted a question mark in a margin and circled it in red. Hmmm, troubling.
If the plague or plagues were seasonal, planning her arrival during the winter months, assuming she could target an arrival time, might allow her an opportunity to get in front of the virus with an effective containment plan. She’d already given her resignation at the hospital and couldn’t afford to sit around Dallas for several months. Besides, Papa and Maggie were already packed and ready to go.
Finding Cyprian would be her first priority when she returned to Carthage. Next, she’d rescue Mama and Laurentius from Aspasius. Then she would make sure Cyprian and her half brother were vaccinated. Once the family was together again, they could regroup and do whatever it took to wipe this sickness from the pages of history before they all jumped back into the twenty-first century.
She flipped through some more brittle pages, stopping at a biography reportedly written by Pontius, Cyprian’s truest friend. She’d always admired the church deacon who willingly left a life of privileged service behind and boldly followed Cyprian into disgrace. This man had probably risked his neck by immortalizing the truth of the man he served. His devotion touched a raw place in her core. Over and over again, she’d witnessed Christians expressing extreme devotion, even to the point of exchanging their lives for another’s. Acts of lunacy, it seemed … until she became a recipient of this kindness. Selfless lunacy that changed her life forever.
What the church deacon lacked in eloquence, he made up for in bombastic fervor. Pontius wrote of his fury that some had accused his friend of cowardice, of fleeing the persecution in Carthage to save his own neck.
Cowardice?
Indignation straightened Lisbeth’s back. Who would make such an unfair and unjustified charge? Maybe Cyprian wasn’t the saint Pontius claimed, but he certainly was not a coward. Her husband had his faults, hardheadedness and single-mindedness to name two. But in the end, he’d sacrificed his life without reservation. Everyone in the proconsul’s chambers that day knew the truth: Cyprianus Thascius was no coward.
Lisbeth wiped her wet cheeks. She scanned the rest of the account, desperate to know what Pontius said of her and the impact her marriage to Cyprian had made on his heart.
Not one word.
Incredulity bolted through Lisbeth. Hands trembling, she searched the document again, word for disheartening word. She slammed the book closed and shut her eyes. Reality seeped into her veins.
She might as well have never existed.
10
Tunis, Tunisia
UNTIL A WEEK AGO, Lisbeth had only dreamed of returning to Carthage. From the safety of her lonely bed, she imagined growing old in Cyprian’s arms, probably in much the same way Mama had dreamed of coming back home to Papa one day. And, like her mother, each time Lisbeth had woken drenched in sweat, she told herself she’d done the right thing to stay put.
Yet here she was.
Back in Africa. Hurrying across an abandoned Tunisian airstrip with ten precious MMR vials tucked in an isotherm cooler. Tugging her daughter and father toward a grisly bootlegger waiting to smuggle them into a war-torn country. And all of this adventure only a few days after she’d shut down a measles outbreak in the States.
When she first told Maggie they were going to look for her father, Maggie had immediately pulled her Little Mermaid suitcase from the closet and begged for more details.
What’s Daddy’s favorite color? Does he like to draw? What does my daddy look like?
Papa suggested Lisbeth show Maggie the medieval portrait she’d found in one of his history books. To Lisbeth, the sad-eyed, bearded man looked more like the old bishop Caecilianus than the rich, young nobleman who’d swept her into his arms and ca
rried her across the threshold of their bridal chamber.
In the end, she’d settled on “Your daddy loves the color green, like my eyes. Knows a boy who loves to draw. And best of all, your father has a handsome face with a kind smile and blue eyes just like yours, baby.”
“You have to get in the plane if you want to see your daddy,” Papa bargained.
Maggie peered inside Nigel’s Cessna where Aisa, Papa’s beloved camp cook, waited with his tire iron and a toothless smile. Maggie shook her head. “I won’t be able to breathe in there.”
“We’ll be at the cave before you know it.” Lisbeth lifted Maggie’s stiff body into the seat. “Here, hold your doll so she can see out the window.” When the tears started, Lisbeth looked to her father. “Maybe I should have given her something to calm her nerves.”
“You can’t control everything, Lisbeth.” Papa climbed into his seat. “Long as she’s screaming, we’ll know she’s breathing.”
Lisbeth slid in next to Maggie and handed her fussing daughter some paper and crayons. Maggie immediately settled. While her daughter happily worked on her art, Lisbeth took in the wind-sculpted spine of the desert. The closer they came to the cave, the more her excitement grew. So many unanswered questions lingered in the third century.
What had happened to Mama and Laurentius topped her list. The last she’d seen them was at the tenement well, captured by the soldiers of Aspasius before they could escape with her. If they were still alive, she needed some sort of plan to free them.
Also, what had become of Junia, the orphan she’d rescued? Especially if Ruth had …
Lisbeth could barely allow herself to think of Ruth. In the short time she and Ruth had been together, the bishop’s beautiful wife had taught her so much: How to act like a lady. How to make guests feel welcome. How to love with selfless abandon. After Caecilianus was beheaded, Lisbeth wanted desperately to comfort her dear friend, but Aspasius had forbidden any contact. This was her chance to let Ruth know she’d listened and learned. She couldn’t wait for Ruth to meet Maggie.
And then there was Cyprian.
If she let herself dwell on whether Cyprian was still alive or whether his marriage to her had cost more than she dared imagine, she wouldn’t be able to breathe. Instead she preferred to ponder happier things, such as whether he’d missed her as much as she’d missed him. What would he think when he met their daughter? Would he adore Maggie enough to follow her home, to safety?
“Look, baby.” Lisbeth pointed at the granite rising in the distance. “It’s the Cave of the Swimmers.”
“It looks like a birthday hat.” Maggie got a new piece of paper. “I want to draw it for you, Mommy.”
Lisbeth couldn’t help but smile. Maybe this jumping-down-a-narrow-shaft idea was going to go better than she thought.
The plane dropped sharply, leaving their stomachs suspended several hundred feet above them before Nigel finally set them down on a bumpy strip of sand that separated the cave from rugged basalt cliffs.
Lisbeth was the first out of the plane. She reached in and quickly freed Maggie from her seat belt. As she set Maggie’s feet upon desert sand for the first time, she watched her daughter’s face shift. “Want to explore the cave with me, baby?”
Maggie glanced at the dark cave opening several hundred yards away. Doll clutched close to her chest, she backed toward the plane. “No.”
Papa unfolded his lanky frame and exited the cockpit. “There are drawings all over the walls.” He stretched the kinks from his arms and legs.
“Animals?” Maggie asked.
“Some.”
Maggie’s eyes darted between the plane she hated and the cave she suspected wouldn’t be any better. “Is that the only way to see my daddy?”
“Yep,” Papa said. “Choice is yours.”
Jaw clenched, Maggie took Lisbeth’s hand and braved a cautious advance. The moment Maggie stepped through the cave’s mouth, her respirations increased. She gave the paintings only a cursory glance. “I don’t see him. You said I’d see my daddy.”
“We have to go down the hole to see him.” Lisbeth was about to point out the swimmer triplets, a prehistoric family Papa had named the Hastings years ago, but Maggie wiggled free and shot from the cave. She’d nearly made it back to the plane before Lisbeth caught up.
“No, I can’t. I can’t.”
“It’s okay, baby.” Lisbeth rocked her back and forth. “We don’t have to go down the hole today.”
Maggie broke free. “Why can’t my daddy come to me?” she panted.
Images of Cyprian bowed before the executioner’s sword flashed in Lisbeth’s mind. “I’m sorry, baby. He would if he could. That’s why we need to go. To help him come home.” She offered Maggie her hand. “Let’s set up our tent.”
Nightfall rode in on a chilly gust and whipped sand over the secrets buried beneath the desert floor. Sitting cross-legged before the campfire, Lisbeth stroked Maggie’s hair while Nigel, Aisa, and Papa tried to douse Maggie’s growing concerns with crazy tales of lost treasures. Lisbeth had hoped seeing the openness of the cave would eliminate Maggie’s anxiety. Instead her little girl had had a full-blown panic attack and refused to climb into the confines of her sleeping bag.
Thirty minutes later, Maggie’s head finally lolled. Lisbeth checked to see if she’d fallen asleep. No such luck. Tongues of fire danced across the crystal seas of Maggie’s wide eyes. The same blazing determination to outlast the opposition had flashed in Cyprian’s eyes when he’d boldly exchanged his life for hers. Nothing Lisbeth said or did during their last moments together had changed his mind. Nothing she could say or do now would convince Maggie to sleep before she was ready. If Lisbeth couldn’t convince her daughter to risk the enclosure of a sleeping bag, how would she persuade her to hurl herself into the narrow, dark tunnel?
Lisbeth gave in and handed Maggie one of the extra tent stakes. “Why don’t you try drawing in the sand?”
An hour later, Papa nudged Lisbeth’s shoulder. “She’s finally a goner.” He scooped Maggie into his arms. “Let me carry her to the tent.”
Lisbeth sprinted ahead and held back the canvas flap. Papa ducked inside with his precious cargo. She watched him gently settle Maggie on top of her sleeping bag. Even in her sleep, Maggie’s face twitched with anxiety.
Papa took Lisbeth by the elbow and whispered, “Better get some sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day.”
“Do all children inherit their parents’ fears?” she whispered back.
“I don’t like snakes.” He pointed at his extra pair of digging boots positioned neatly at the foot of his bed, a sock pulled tightly over the top of each. Then he pointed at the boots thrown haphazardly beside Lisbeth’s duffel. “But they don’t seem to bother you.”
“Thanks for making me feel worse than I already do.” She kissed his cheek, then bent and brushed a blond curl from Maggie’s face. “Much as I dislike my own claustrophobia, I hate seeing my daughter struggle with it.”
“Parental guilt is one of the immutable laws of nature.” Papa sat on his cot. He rubbed his knees as if massaging some courage into what he had to say next. “After your mother left, I saw the twinkle drain from your eyes.” His palms ironed his faded dungarees. “My fear of never making anything of myself played a big part in your sorrow. Knowing my selfishness had hurt you pained me more than losing Magdalena.” In the yellow glow of the kerosene lantern he appeared to have aged ten years since they arrived. “I’ve devoted my life to rekindling your spark. Tried everything I could think of, even sending you to the States for an education.” He nodded in Maggie’s direction. “But it wasn’t until the doc put that little one in your arms that the light finally snapped back on.” He lifted a leg and tugged at his boot. “Whatever is down that hole is worth saving. Not just for her, but for you.”
Lisbeth watched Papa climb into his sleeping bag and waited until his snores rattled the tent. Then she rose from her cot, fished his Bible from his rucksack, and searched the l
ined pages one last time for a definitive stance on meddling with the past.
Second Peter mentioned that to God a day was like a thousand years and a thousand years like a day. The book of Luke had a story of Moses and Elijah transfigured from the past to stand beside Jesus in the present. But as far as something exact, the best she could find was the Gospel of John’s reference to God’s presence from the beginning. Obviously God operated in a realm of great complexity when it came to time. Eternity, for example, was one of those complexities. Time without end was a difficult concept to grasp. Especially when everything in humanity’s known realm had an expiration date. Milk. Medicine. Men.
But what if it was possible to delay Cyprian’s untimely end? What if there wasn’t some kind of supernatural force that prohibited such an action? What were the risks if she once again succeeded in crossing the time barrier? Rerouting pivotal events could have far-reaching ramifications. If the bishop of Carthage died of natural causes rather than a martyr’s death, would Christianity advance? Cyprian’s selfless example had rallied a scruffy little band of misfits to look death in the eye. If the movement died because Christians chose to bail rather than sacrifice, history’s entire course would be altered.
Even worse, if by chance Lisbeth found that changing the past was possible, would she then return to the same future she’d left? Would Papa and Mama marry in an altered world? If her parents had never married, she would never have been born. And if she’d never existed, as the pages of Pontius’s work suggested, she couldn’t have gone to the third century, and her precious Maggie wouldn’t even be a twinkle in Cyprian’s eye.
She peered into the drug cooler, checking the calibrated thermometer. Forty-two degrees. The ice was melting. At forty-six degrees the vaccine would begin to suffer a rapid deterioration. Her descent through the time portal could not wait for Maggie to warm up to the idea.
Hands shaking, Lisbeth turned down the lantern’s wick and blew across the top of the glass chimney. She crawled in beside Maggie. In the darkness, she listened to her daughter’s peaceful respirations, willing her own breaths to slow to an even match.