by Barbara Best
After much pondering, Jane and Matt vowed to never share Jane’s gripping secret with anyone but General Robert E. Lee. Her history and the reality of time travel would be extremely upsetting to anyone. It is an unpardonable breach of normalcy, and even dangerous. Especially so since Bryce made it clear there are people roaming this time who found him and could be looking for her too.
“A wife can show her devotion and complete her husband in other ways,” Anna sighs, tempering her frustration. “You have much to do with directing your husband’s will, my daughter. Our powers and intellect are not for battle, but for sweet ordering, arrangement and decision.”
“Yes, behind every great man is a great woman,” Jane quotes, recalling a slogan from the 1960s feminist movement her mom used. “But, you see Anna, I don’t want to be behind, I want to be beside Matt.” Jane lifts her gaze to Anna’s brown eyes that shine with good intentions. They are the warm Hopkins’ eyes she trusts and adores. Jane turns her wooden embroidery hoop, tugging to make the fabric nice and tight. Wearily, she surrenders to another set of lazy-daisy stitches that encircle five French knots.
The calming effect of companionship leaves them in contemplation for a while.
“You are biting your lip again, dear,” Anna points out in motherly fashion. She hopes this is a sign her sound counsel has made some impact.
Jane automatically rolls her shoulders, blows noisily out her mouth and smoothes a fine wisp of hair that has escaped from the narrow braids that loop over her ears. Giving her work another critical eye, she is determined to complete the tea towels she started.
The pattern is borrowed from a Godey’s Lady’s Book Anna brought from Savannah. They say it is an easy one, but she has her doubts. The pair of tea towels is a contribution to a hope chest of household items, embroidered linens, table scarves and hand-me-downs. Her friend Becky Maccaw, another one of Captain McIntosh’s Civil War refugees sheltered under his roof, is of “marrying age.” She will wed sometime in the spring. The date will be set as soon as Becky’s fiancé Billy Bacon finishes building a set of rooms onto his meager farmhouse suitable for his unmarried sister and new mother-in-law. Billy received a crippling wound to his leg while fighting with his former regiment in Texas. His progress on the farm has been slow, however, there are helping hands in the community to see him through.
Mindful of Anna’s misgivings, Jane gently adds, “There is risk in everything we do. You know that.” Risk and danger had become Jane’s middle name. She has had her fair share since the day she arrived in this era and her life was turned upside down.
“Honor, dignity, courage,” Jane spouts.
“Family, faith, charity,” Anna graciously counters. “These are wonderful virtues. You must know, truly, I am anxious about you. Your romantic ideas and the question of your well-being weigh heavy.”
“I understand and totally appreciate your concern, Anna.”
“Yes child, but—“
“But, Mother dear . . . ill-starred venture or not, there is little either one of us can do to change my sweet Jane’s mind,” Matt interrupts, having entered through a set of French doors from the balcony that joins a number of rooms on the second floor. He is pleased to see the surprised yet joyful expressions upon his sudden appearance.
“I’ve been looking for you.” Matt’s gaze quickly runs to his wife. “Tessie made such a fuss over my intrusion that I was forced to find a covert way in. I think I have succeeded, undetected,” he grins.
“You rascal, you,” Anna clicks her tongue.
Matt smoothly rounds the carpet, taking care not to soil it with boots that are wet from being out in inclement weather. The picture of robust health, he is quite himself again, full of vim and vigor. His damp hair is slicked back from his sun-kissed face and his eyes glitter with amusement.
“Ah, what a quaint, familial scene,” he says. “It always warms my heart to see the two of you together.”
“You’re all wet,” Jane giggles, exchanging an intimate glance with her husband.
“It is raining cats and dogs out there,” Matt remarks, brushing at his sleeves and the shoulders of his coat where water has formed tiny droplets on the wool. It can be seen flying in all directions.
“Son!” Anna complains happily. “You come to my room smelling like a wet dog. Need you make such a mess?”
“The heavenly warmth of your fire is what I need,” Matt chuckles. Out of respect, he kisses the upturned cheek of his mother first, then goes to stand beside Jane. He rests his hand lightly on his wife’s shoulder. Through his fingertips, a small indescribable jolt passes between them like an electrical current. Jane told him within the next twenty years electricity will be harnessed in such a way as to light the world. It will spark a revolution of new and amazing inventions to make life easier.
“You are back so soon.” Anna puts down her work and lays her spectacles on the small three-legged table next to her chair. She gives Matthew her undivided attention and Jane casually mimics her posture.
“Yes, Doctor Chapstick did not take long,” Matt grins. He likes Jane’s silly version of poor Doctor Chadwick’s name. She said Chapstick is a brand of soothing balm in her time that is applied to protect and moisten the lips.
Jane’s eyes dart up to her husband’s, and he nods. The doctor’s clean bill of health is expected.
“Mother, how on earth did you ever get Jane to take up a needle?” Matt is very familiar with Jane’s likes and dislikes as she freely makes them known. She had once compared the ordeal of sewing to Chinese water torture. When he inquired what that meant, Jane said it was more an expression in her time made famous by a magician’s act and had nothing to do with China. She described a form of torture conducted by dripping water on a person’s forehead until they supposedly went mad. Their talks have revealed many strange things. Jane’s worldly experience stretched by means of future methods, or what she calls mass media, is boundless and boggles the mind.
“Your hands are cold, sweetheart,” Jane says, curling her fingers around Matt’s to warm his chilled skin.
“You have it then.” There is a note of enormity in Anna’s voice.
“Indeed, ladies, you must congratulate me. I am declared once again fit for military service in the Confederate States Army. Papers have been issued and I have my orders from our renowned General Lee to report for duty. Time to get back to the business of war.”
Both women flinch at the finality of Major Matthew Henry Hopkins’ affirmation.
Chapter 21
HIGHLAND GAELIC RITE
Just when Sophie is sure it can’t get any worse, she finds out it bloody well can. Her nail-biting escape with Segi in Berko’s Piper before they boarded a private jet that whisked them from Nairobi to this remote location in the Highlands was child’s play. Nothing compares to the convoluted perversion inflicted by the weird Renaissance man sitting across the finely set table from her. The old Scot in his burgundy velvet morning jacket trimmed in fur and scarlet wool cap strikes her as someone who has made a poor transition from medieval to modern.
Doctor Seamus Archer, Grand Master of the Supreme Divinity Temple of the Highland Gaelic Rite, studies her with the yellowed eyes of a hawk. His coldness and intimidating arrogance annoy her to no end. It is the personality traits of someone who has had entirely too much sovereignty. Sophie wonders what he was like as a kid. He was probably the type who pulled the wings off of flies or poked pins through the bodies of live beetles for his collection.
She tries one more time, “But I—”
“There ur nae buts, lass,” Seamus interrupts, and coughs to clear the cobwebs from his throat. It is difficult to focus on triviality when his mind is occupied with far greater things. He made it a rule, though, to give his travelers a bit of his time.
Laying his flatware to one side of his plate, Seamus rubs at the ache of arthritis in his curled fingers. The medieval castle is a constant irritant. Built on a jutting pedestal for a privileged class of nobility,
it was once the lifeblood of this blustery, low-lying Scottish-Highland region. Over nine hundred years old, the massive fortress with its passageways tunneled out of deep caves within Cladhaich Rock has been modernized over time. Yet, nothing can remedy the stubborn moisture that seeps from its crumbling turrets and ramparts.
It riles the ailments of a centuries-old man who keeps the specifics of his immortality and the mystery of his regeneration a closely guarded secret. Still, most would agree Seamus does not look a day over seventy. This remark might appeal to his vanity, but then time, his beloved companion, has always been good to him.
“We’ve been ower this before,” Seamus reminds.
“And I’ve told you a dozen times, I am not cut out for it,” Sophie insists, flipping her hand at nothing in particular.
“Och, ye ur talkin’ in circles. Dinna fash yerself,” Seamus clucks haughtily. He empties his goblet of Italian Moscato and smacks his wrinkled lips. The pale golden liquid, one of Italy’s finest, satisfies his nagging sweet-tooth.
“Bread?” Seamus offers politely, and helps himself to a generous slice from a sterling basket. He strains to maintain the appropriate level of patience. He thought perhaps dining separately on this occasion would pacify Mrs. Downing’s fragile mood.
Seamus regrets missing the antics of their flamboyant visitors from Rome and his French emissary who will fly back to Paris in the morning. The lively assemblage dominates a neighboring table that spans the length of the cavernous hall. All are having a grand time of outdoing one another in a contest of banter and getting thoroughly soused in the process. Wine is flowing freely.
His gaze lights on Father Cambrio who never quite lives up to his vows, but has made himself extremely useful to the Rite. The highly regarded priest and Seamus’ private confessor has brought his entourage of staunch holy men. They celebrate a recent discovery that paints early-period details of the war between the factions.
The priceless archive that dates to the Highland Gaelic Rite’s Originals supports the historicity of the darkest of times. Written in hieroglyphics, it gives an account of the time when Rodrigo Tomas de Salva and his Druid demon of a bride became their sworn enemies.
Sophie can feel the heat rise under her clothes up to the outer tips of her ears. She has come to the Highland Gaelic Rite seeking asylum, not to be drawn back into reckless schemes that rummage and desecrate history.
“Look, I came to you, Your Supreme Highness, Grand Master, whatever,” she stammers, put off by the title everyone uses in the man’s presence.
“Aye, as we expected,” Seamus says. He grows tired of the woman’s disrespectful behavior and critical scrutiny. No matter, he sniffs. Mrs. Downing’s impressions will be short-lived.
Sophie leans back in her chair and drops her hands into her lap. She presses one hand gently to the dark, warm place that cradles her child. It is no small effort to draw away from the joy she feels in learning her and Ben’s little miracle will live and flourish.
“The portal will be closed, ken. Ye must accept what will be.”
Sophie winces at the man’s tone. It thoroughly flattens the warm fuzzy effect of motherly bliss.
“Closed, with me in it,” she says.
“Aye. We will put an end to Salva’s malicious venture once an’ fur all.” Seamus flicks a few crumbs to one side with his napkin, fixated on anything out of kilter. “The pot roast is superb. I see ye havna eaten but a wee bit. It is shameful to see it spoil,” he complains, and spouts something in raised Italian that makes the entire group of dinner guests at the neighboring table burst into uproarious laughter.
“Just who do you think you are?” Sophie spews in a throaty growl. Her chair scrapes the ancient slate floor in the hall when she abruptly stands. It is amplified by the acoustics of a high, intricately sculpted ceiling.
She feels small in a room filled with massive furniture, priceless antiques, and silk tapestries that liberally serve as runners along aisles and decorate the stone walls. A huge fireplace with a chiseled marble mantle reaching well over her head takes up a complete wall at one end. Modified lamps and chandeliers, converted to electricity, give off a dim medieval light. All eyes turn in her direction and there is a frozen silence before random, impartial shrugs go up and the echoing drone of conversation continues.
“Yer nae finished,” Seamus grins broadly, but his tolerance is waning. He levels his knife at Sophie’s plate, strongly implying she should resume dining.
Sophie lowers down into her chair. She watches an attendant efficiently remove minuscule food particles from the tablecloth with a flat-edged crumb scraper and wisely waits for him to return to his post before speaking again.
“Can’t you just write it off? The whole dimension. Like, what’s done is done. Who says it’s okay to go back in and meddle more, anyway? What you are doing here is just as bad as Salva. Who knows, maybe worse.”
“Why ye! Hold yer tongue, woman,” Seamus seethes, slamming his fists on the table and making everything around him jump.
Personally, he prefers mysterious allure and a more narrow approach from the opposite sex. Women have changed much over the centuries. He bites off a large chunk of bread and pensively chews while pushing the remaining food on his plate into neat little piles. Each perfect mound will be sampled, one at a time, in a mealtime ritual guaranteed to bore the life out of anyone observing.
Sophie forces the semblance of a smile, “Sorry I’m being such a pain. But honestly, this isn’t easy for me. How can you be so sure all this boils down to the birth of my, uh . . . my son?” It is too early to determine the gender of her child, yet Archer is adamant it’s a boy.
“He will set the world straight. He will forge a proper place in history fur the true and rightful heirs o’ the North American continent.” Seamus wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Tis a pity Salva has generated a severed dimension fur their personal gratification. They’ve treated this like a game from the start, unequal, shan, and split aff. Yer son will complete this calamity once an’ fur all.”
Pausing briefly, Seamus interjects with gnashing teeth, “If they want a utopia, then they shall have it. But oan my terms.”
“I get it. My son will save the American Indians from annihilation.” The first time Sophie heard this it made her hair stand on end. Yet, part of her is intrigued. “Now, getting back to the issue of my memory.” A terrifying detail and non-negotiable condition.
“Must we discuss that again? I’ll nae be changin’ my mind,” Seamus snorts.
“Yes, my memory. As in losing it . . . like dying and being reborn.” Sophie rests her forearms on the table. “Seriously, if you didn’t want the questions, you shouldn’t have told me this stuff.”
The insane concept of scrubbing her memory, along with giving her a one-way ticket to another time, threw Sophie into panic mode. Why didn’t they just knock her on the head and get on with it?
Doctor Archer had explained in layman’s terms all memories, both human and animal, are encoded and stored in neurons. The science of the Rite had somehow uncovered a way to manipulate the code and firing neurons with time adjustments. Something they called “mind’s eye consent.” It is a complex study in molecular and computational biology that gives them the ability to rewrite the brain by synapses modification.
The long and short of it, Sophie’s dear friend Masegi Sesay was virtually reprogrammed and returned to his life stream. His recent memory of Sophie and the Rite are erased. Archer would not elaborate further, but assured her more than once Segi is not in any danger.
“Yoo’re nae an Explorer, lass,” Seamus suggests with a noisy harrumph. He refers to a group of select time travelers with inherent talents the Salva Society tended to use.
“Explorers like Jane and Bryce,” Sophie validates.
Earlier in the day, Sophie had shared what she knew about Jane’s disappearance at Fort Pulaski and how she and her husband deliberately set up Bryce who was sucked through the same clandestine portal a yea
r later. She mentioned Ben and how Salva lured him into their deceitful snare.
The dry Doctor Archer perked up a little when Sophie described her time on Gough Island. He said Jane and Bryce are worker bees in a vast hive. Explorers predestined to do Salva’s bidding. He also explained the Rite has their own comparable. The Neach-glèidhidh. In English the Scottish Gaelic meaning is akin to a Guardian. Guardians are the chosen ones who serve as history rebooters, so to speak. They are trained to identify, monitor and redirect Salva’s unsavory attempts to rewrite history. Sophie envisions goalkeepers in the sport of soccer, intent on preventing the opposing team from scoring.
Doctor Archer describes a complex, almost mythical world outside the realm of reality and right up there with extraterrestrials, ghosts and other half-baked paranormal beliefs. To her, neither the Rite nor Salva can justify what they hope to defend or achieve. Although the Rite boasts a spirit of heroism, as if they are the fearless custodians of history, in her mind Archer’s faction is no different from the other. Both players are equally deranged and she is yet another pawn in their destructive game.
“Ye understand then,” Seamus says, waiting for Mrs. Downing’s nod.
With shrewd eyes, Seamus assesses the attractive blonde poised on the tender brink of motherhood. She makes him think of a luscious girl, contracted for reasons of property and alliance, whom he bedded. His virgin lamb bore him a fine son during the hegemony of Granada’s silk-wearing bourgeoisie at the turn of the century.
Oh, the fruits of fertile continents he has traveled freely! Seamus’ lips curl at the veiled meaning of this reflection.
“From fairest creatures we desire increase, that thereby beauty’s rose might ne’er die,” he quotes openly for all to hear.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Sophie shoots an impudent glare at the room. There is a muttered response that quickly turns to the crow of amusement and sporadic applause.
“The wee-lass is feisty,” Seamus announces, lifting his goblet high. “Deoch. She will serve us well.” To this, there is a rush of celebratory clinking and chatter.