Back in the car, I turned on the radio, thinking the distraction of some music would be nice. I confess, I’ve always been a fan of classic rock from the 1960’s and seventies and located a station that was playing Edwin Starr grinding out War. Elani had particular fun trying to master the lyrics, her thoughts echoing in my head in a deep, bass voice. The result was so funny that I couldn’t help but laugh, enjoying her silliness, since she could be too serious at times. As we passed through Birmingham, Kipp’s gaze was drawn out of the right side of the SUV.
“I’d really like to visit Sloss Furnace on the way back,” he remarked wistfully.
“Don’t you think we’d need some preparation for that?” I asked. “And I thought you were done with ghost business,” I added, feeling a little mean.
“I am done with the Twelve mandating ghost hunting, but I admit, after our trip to Gettysburg, I thought about the experiences later.” Kipp sighed, sticking his head up between the seats, his furry jaw resting on my shoulder. “I’m convinced there is more to be learned, but I’d just like to do it at my own speed…kind of like a hobby,” he concluded.
I knew about Sloss Furnace, which was considered to be one of the most haunted places in the country. But to visit a place such as that required some type of sleight of hand to get the lupines past the gate.
“Philo took care of that, in the event we go,” Kipp answered easily. “They’ve had so many ghost investigators over the years that our presentation would be novel: two canines who are sensitive to the paranormal. The management approved our visit.”
“Well, how thoughtful of Philo and how nice you are informing the rest of us,” I remarked sarcastically.
“I didn’t know I had to get your permission,” Kipp shot back.
The atmosphere in the car became suddenly tense; I glanced at Peter who rolled his eyes at me before turning them back on the interstate. Elani coughed politely before circling and plopping down in the back.
Occasionally, humans and symbionts are gifted with insight, occasionally being the operative word. Who likes to admit when one is wrong and is being hard headed, obstinate and selfish? But I had my tiny epiphany at that moment, since Kipp had universally, up that point, followed my lead. I had a flush of pride as I realized he was moving apart as he matured and, for him, as well as us, that was important. Had I selfishly wanted to keep him under my wing for our entire partnership? Even I didn’t know if I could honestly answer that question.
“I’m sorry,” he began, licking the side of my face.
Despite the seat belt laws, I had to unclick mine so I could turn in my seat. “No, Kipp, don’t do that,” I replied. “You are right; you don’t have to ask my permission, and I’m proud you are moving independently of me. I’m not the one to give you permission over your choices,” I added.
He looked rather crestfallen, but at my words, his tail began to wag. Elani’s head lifted as she realized we, in our clumsy way, were making up. Does anyone enjoy conflict? Maybe a few humans, but none of us in that car were happy over words spoken in anger. And even though we’d brushed past a little rough patch, I was glad when we approached our destination.
The original disaster had occurred during a stormy March, and it was now April, but there was no science involved that would force us to have to be present at the exact time the sinking had occurred. Our destination was the town of Naheola, Alabama, and Peter, after navigating past Tuscaloosa, looped further south until we picked up state road 114, which would eventually lead to Pennington. Naheola, just north of Pennington, was the town where, per the stories, the populace had raced out to the river’s edge to try and assist the people who were stricken after the Eliza Battle began to burn. The highway crossed over the Tombigbee, and we thought that would be a good place to view the river and perhaps scramble to the banks to get closer if needed. The area through which we passed was no longer mountainous and became flatter as we drew nearer to the coastal plains. To either side of the road, fields stretched, some already deeply furrowed as farmers prepared the fertile land for crops to be grown.
The clouds on the far horizon had been building all day, dark and foreboding, and were heavy with moisture, so much so that the lower edges seemed to graze the feathered tops of tall pines. Spring was a notorious month for storms, but I had been monitoring the radio on and off, and thankfully, there were no tornadoes predicted. There was a corridor in Alabama that seemed tornado-prone, and our journey took us through that area.
“A stormy background might be helpful,” Kipp remarked. “Many of the sightings have occurred during bad weather.”
Of course, despite the weather, his ability to connect with things of the spirit world seemed solid, so if anyone could conjure the Eliza Battle, it would be Kipp. As the clouds crowded in to obstruct the once blue sky, we approached the bridge, which was our destination. Peter selected a place and stopped the SUV in a flurry of crunching gravel and dust. We jumped out and scrambled down the gentle incline leading to the bank, getting as close as possible to the water. The wind began to blow, bending the trees to and fro, and I could only hope the rain would hold off for a little longer. The Tombigbee stretched before us, its waters gray and beginning to show some choppiness due to the wind. A barge had just passed headed south towards the Gulf, leaving white foamed waves in its wake. The air smelled thick with the dankness of the river combined with the pending storm.
A few lonely cars passed, a couple tooting their horns, a surprisingly cheerful welcome to strangers, perhaps noting our North Carolina tags. Overhead, a dark wedge of birds veered to the southeast, fleeing the approaching storm. Kipp was next to me, his side brushing my leg; I could feel his warmth through the cotton of my jeans. He glanced up, and the excitement was evident in the fire I could see in his amber eyes. His tail wagged a time or two, just to let me know that all was good between us. Of course, it would always be good; nothing else would be acceptable.
“I’m seeing something!” Kipp exclaimed, with a quick, indrawn breath.
He encouraged us to enter his thoughts, and we could see the visions that only he, with his peculiar sensitivity, could truly experience. From beneath the surface of the turbulent, troubled waters of the river, there were lights that were visible, faded but growing in intensity. In a moment, the lights broke through the top of the water, and the form of a boat began to slowly rise to the surface, the water rolling from the superstructure as it bobbed into view, rocking gently from side to side as if righting itself. I could clearly see the name of the Eliza Battle scrawled across the side of the ship near the bow. It was an old fashioned paddle wheeler, magnificent and beautiful in form and design. The sounds of laughter echoed across the water; overhead, the clouds descended ominously, threatening to unleash a torrent upon us at any moment. I could clearly hear the sound of the calliope, as an unfamiliar tune played, perhaps one composed by the organist. A moment later, the laughter changed to cries of alarm escalating to screams from the phantom passengers, and the vision became brilliant, horrible, as fire began to consume the boat, tongues of orange and yellow lifting towards the sky. People, frantic to escape the heat, began jumping over the sides of the boat, and the sounds of bodies splashing into the dark water were clearly audible. The moment became so intense that I fancied I could feel the heat from the burning ship strike my face; without thinking, I took a step back to avoid the unpleasant sensation. At one point, I turned to Peter in astonishment, only to find him gazing at me, his mouth hanging open in surprise. Kipp’s eyes were closed as his concentration intensified. We were so busy focusing our attention on Kipp, who was equally busy, that we failed to hear a car pull up and stop behind us.
“You folks okay?” A man’s voice interrupted the experience.
It was a county sheriff’s deputy, a young man, his face all serious beneath the stiff brimmed hat he was wearing. His intentions had been good, worry for us since the weather was about to break. But he had inadvertently disrupted the moment, and Kipp lost his grasp o
n the phantom, his legs almost buckling due to exhaustion. I put my hand firmly on the back of his neck, feeling the heat from his flesh; he was trembling. The burning Eliza Battle would not be recreated any time soon.
“I thought you might have car trouble,” he added, smiling.
“We’re fine,” I replied, walking towards him. “We were just hoping to catch a glimpse of the Eliza Battle,” I added mischievously.
The young deputy laughed, squinting a little as he glanced up at the sky. He had no desire to deal with the car accidents that usually accompanied bad weather.
“There are no ghost ships around here,” he remarked. “Ghost hunters just made that up to scare people.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I replied, smiling.
We had just shut the doors to the SUV when the torrential rain began to fall. We sat there, on the side of the road, letting the SUV be pelted by the water. Peter had decided to wait until it let up just a little, before resuming the drive. Reaching forward, he turned on the windshield wipers, which began to slap lazily as they swung back and forth, the sound and movement hypnotic. It wouldn’t take much more of that to put me to sleep.
“I know one thing,” Kipp remarked. “I may have had enough visits to doomed ships for a while.”
“That’s good, Kipp. I was hoping you didn’t want to visit the Sultana or the Cyclops,” I replied, stifling a yawn.
“The Sultana…what’s that?”
Seven
“I’m wondering if it is wise for you to continue dabbling about with this ghost business,” Fitzhugh remarked as he brought the teapot to the dinette table. Kipp was in the back yard, making his usual rounds, and he’d left my mind for a while, leaving it surprisingly vacant. I paused to wonder if there really had been very little occupying my brain for most of my life.
“Why?” I replied, trying to focus my eyes. I’d awakened early and was relatively confident I would feel it all day.
“Kipp’s ability to connect is so spot on and vivid in terms of the experience that it is, well, too real. It places a psychological burden on all of you who share, besides the toll it takes on Kipp.” Fitzhugh poured my tea, almost carelessly, so that a tiny drop missed the cup and landed upon the tabletop. Such an occurrence was rare for one with his skill level. “Oops,” he remarked, smiling at me. Was it my self-indulgent imagination, or was Fitzhugh happier and more content than before? Of course, I’d never bothered to really get to know what made him tick until lately.
“Well, you know Kipp’s level of curiosity,” I replied with a yawn. The tea was too hot, so I studied the steam rising off of the cup for a minute before hazarding a sip. Changing the subject, I remarked, “Elani proposed a possible time-shift during our ride home.”
Fitzhugh raised his eyebrows and smiled. “That was only waiting for the right moment, I suspect. Elani is no meek flower, and I predict she will become very dominant as she grows older and more confident.”
“Yeah, I can’t wait until she decides to take on Kipp after her crush wears off.” I laughed. “Right now, she is too infatuated.” I sipped at the tea, managing to burn my tongue in the process. Hastily, I placed the cup back on the table to wait a little longer. “She wants to put together a trip to the time of Lincoln’s assassination to determine the guilt or innocence of Mary Surratt.”
Fitzhugh’s expression became sober, and his playful tone changed. “It would be a challenging trip in more ways than I can enumerate.”
“Well, I would think so,” I replied. “To get close to her would put a traveler smack in the middle of the web of conspirators pulled together by John Wilkes Booth. Also, Mary Surratt was a known Confederate sympathizer in a town where the federal government was operating. Any people associated with her could be lumped in when the assassination occurred, and people were being hauled off to jail with very little cause and no due process. There was a fair amount of unlawful activity at the time in terms of the government and how citizens were treated.”
“Yes. It seems desperate times called for extreme measures. The suspension of habeas corpus was debated at the time and still is by constitutional scholars and historians. But you have to admit it would be fascinating,” Fitzhugh said. He paused to add a little more honey to his tea, having acquired my habit. Once, he’d been a purist where tea was concerned, so I suppose I had corrupted him. “The subject of her guilt or innocence died when she was hanged, and only she knew for certain. Of course, she protested her innocence, but so have legions of others who are condemned.”
“If Elani wants to do the research and approach the Twelve, it’s fine with me.” I was ready to move on. “She and Peter can make that trip and then report back to the rest of us.” I almost sniffed to show my lack of interest. Almost.
Fitzhugh parked his thin elbows on the tabletop. He’d not combed his hair yet, and the long strands hung down past his collar. His beard, too, had not been trimmed in a while, and he looked like some wizard who’d been holed up in a dark cave for years. I thought for a minute he was irritated at my casual disinterest before I realized he was curious…and concerned.
“Petra, what would you like to do?” Picking up the teapot, he topped off my barely touched cup; the fragrance of bergamot filled the room. The sun took that moment to brighten, as the clouds that had been hovering between the earth and sky shifted to the east, and the kitchen filled with light and warmth. It spoke of our evolved relationship that he didn’t have to elaborate or clarify his query.
“I’m not sure,” I replied. “Somehow, I’ve lost my focus, and I guess it is due to many things.” My eyes met his. “I can think of a time when I would have jumped at a trip such as this, but now I just seem to be, well, cautious.” I laughed. “You would never, in the past, called me overly cautious, would you?”
“If you will permit,” he said, smiling, the expression in his eyes softening. “You had a very, very difficult time-shift with Tula during which she was lost. The death of a bonded symbiont is one of the most traumatic things that can happen to one of us. Since then, everything has been in a rush…developing your relationship with Kipp and subsequent challenging time-shifts. Then, the Twelve decided you need to become a teacher and have you working in a quartet, something unheard of with our kind.” Fitzhugh crumbled the end off of a cold Pop-Tart. The store had run out of his favorite strawberry, but he didn’t complain about the blueberry substitute I’d nabbed. “I think you have the right to be just a little tired and maybe feel a little lost, too.”
I think symbionts, just as do humans, take others and situations for granted, much too easily. I’d known Fitzhugh for years and thought of him as a cantankerous old codger, using his years of wisdom as a cudgel with which to batter me with criticism. In that moment, as the light illuminated the kitchen—highlighting all the dust and accumulated lupine hairs on the floor—I had my moment of revelation that perhaps all things do have a purpose and that Fitzhugh and I had come full circle. Philo and I shared honesty bred from friendship; Fitzhugh and I shared something else that evolved from being former combatants to allies in the present. He was giving me the benefit of his wisdom, finally, and I was no longer guarded and defensive; I soaked it up like a sponge. It felt good.
“I think I’ve been foolish for many years,” I remarked with a lopsided grin.
“How so?”
“I wanted to fight you instead of listening to you.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Well, I’m glad you finally realize the folly of your hardheadedness.”
I had to laugh. Kipp was at the back door, pressing his damp nose against the window, ready to come in. I realized he’d politely stayed out of my head while Fitzhugh and I chatted. He brushed past me as I opened the door, his nails clicking on the floor.
“I was trying to give you two plenty of time, but there was a horsefly out there that just would not leave me alone,” Kipp whined, rolling his eyes. “You know how I feel about them,” he added. With a big grunt like dogs might make, he circled
and plopped on the kitchen floor in one of the bright patches of sunlight. I saw a cloud of dust and hair fly up when he hit the floor.
Kipp didn’t fare well when there was little happening in his world; in other words, he became easily bored. Although his default choice would be to nestle at my side like peas and carrots, his mind was too active, the world too full of challenges to sit quietly and wait for me to lead. We started out with such an arrangement, but he had outgrown such childish nonsense. I was proud of his evolution to maturity. And all of this was why I would not just escape back in time to be with William Harrow…at least not now.
Since the weather was nice, Kipp and I began the two-mile trek to Technicorps, passing the landscapes that were so familiar that I felt I could walk with my eyes closed and safely make the journey. I’d resided at my little house in North Carolina for quite a long time in the world of contemporary symbionts. I lived with the mild anxiety that at any moment I could receive the call to come to the big front office and receive my marching orders. There had been some gossip suggesting the poor, declining collective in Alpharetta, Georgia, where we’d met Tristan and Meko, was targeted for a major refurbishing, which would include new staff. The buildings as well as the campus seemed sadly neglected to my critical eye. I had no wish to go there, where the overgrown shrubs crowded the doorways and plucked nervously at my sleeves as I passed.
A squirrel scolded us from the low branches of a young maple tree, flicking its tail in agitation as we passed. Kipp craned his neck back to eye the creature before giving a loud bark, at which the squirrel darted to a higher perch. Kipp’s thick tail began to wag; he always appreciated a little game of challenge with other creatures since he typically would win due to his intellect concealed in the body of a canine. He naturally possessed an unfair advantage.
A Conspiracy to Murder, 1865 Page 7