The Celtic Key

by Barbara Best

  “Oh.” Jane automatically unpins the bib and Sophie’s companion reaches under the back of her coat to untie the sash. The woman, Colette, takes it from her, rolls it into a ball and tucks it into Jane’s carpetbag. “I’m not sure about this, or how I feel.”

  “Nor I. But Jane, it is a miracle to find you.”

  “You look different,” Jane says guardedly. She fumbles with the buttons of her coat.

  “So do you,” Sophie smiles through a shadow of regret.

  Jane’s eyes travel from Sophie’s face down to her torso, “My God, you’re pregnant. Where’s Ben?”

  “He’s dead, Jane,” Sophie’s voice quivers. She clears her throat and slides her gloved hand protectively to her tummy. Of course, her friend would notice the physical changes in her. “It’s been one bloody nightmare. Not anything I would want for any of us. Please, you must let me explain.”

  “Let me explain, huh?” Jane repeats, feeling a surreal urge to laugh. Her scowl transforms to a dull grin, “Man, does that sound familiar.” Seeing the two women’s puzzled expressions, “I just said the same thing to my boss a few minutes ago. I’ve had the worst day.” Jane is not in the habit of being unkind.

  Sophie is limp with relief. “I still can’t believe my eyes. So, what had you in such a rush? You’ve been crying.”

  This time, Jane does laugh. It has a broken sound, “I thought I was trying hard not to. I’m afraid I’ve been fired, 1860s style. No warning, no Human Resources, no justification, no severance pay. Terminated. Get your things and leave. There’s the door.”

  The high-pitched squealing whinny of a horse pulling a supply wagon draws their attention. Ice on the boulevard down the hill has made the poor creature slip. In a panic, it flees up onto the frozen lawn with the driver sawing on the reins. Pedestrians scurry in all directions away from the large wheels that roll dangerously close.

  “Madame, we need to get to a safe place, no?” Colette frets.

  “Yes, you’re right. Jane, this is Colette. She traveled with me.”

  “Surprise-surprise,” Jane scoffs.

  “Look, we need time to talk this through. Where do you live?”

  “Unfortunately, nowhere at the moment.”

  “We live in a boarding house not far from here and are headed that way,” Sophie says, crossing her arms tight against her chest. She wants so badly to hug Jane and shout to the rooftops her joy in finding her friend. “Bloody hell, it’s cold out here. Nothing a cup of hot tea won’t fix, though, right? Please, you have to come with us, Jane.”

  “Well,” Jane considers. She is not about to go crawling back to Edna Paddy to beg for a place to stay. This will give her time to figure things out. “Sure, why not. Tea will be nice, but under the circumstances I think I could use something a little stronger.”

  Both Sophie and Colette give visible sighs. Clouds of vapor escape their mouths and quickly dissipate into the air.

  “I’ll take that,” Jane says. She reaches for her bag and is vaguely intrigued by the woman with the French accent.

  “Okay then, let’s go,” Sophie smiles. “To tell the truth, I think we all deserve a good stiff drink.”

  Chapter 63

  IN A RICHMOND MINUTE

  It is a short trip to Uncle Hal’s house. As Kat pulls into the drive, Hal is spotted pacing the front porch in his white lab coat, a trademark of his profession. He swings one arm up to check the time before catching the red suburban in his peripheral vision. Doing an about-face, he uses the handrail to take the steps down to the slate walk.

  “He doesn’t look happy,” Kat says, uttering a woeful moan. She knew her Uncle well.

  Wyatt unbuckles his seat belt and scoots up to wave. This gets the first real smile out of Uncle Hal, but it quickly fades.

  When they come to a stop, Wyatt hops out, “Uncle Hal!”

  The six-year-old skips up the stone path and into the older gentleman’s arms. After getting a big rocking hug, he beats feet around the side of the house. The backyard tree fort and chicken coop that is a serious bone of contention with Hal’s neighbors will keep him occupied for a while.

  “Don’t leave the yard,” Kat calls after her son. “Uncle,” she smiles, assessing him again up close. She rises on her tiptoes to peck his cheek.

  “Son, you have some explaining to do.” Uncle Hal is not about mincing words. His eyes are trained steady on the stranger.

  “I’m all yours,” Bryce says, and removes his favorite hat that bears memories of his time in 1863. He extends his hand, but it is openly rebuked by the man’s tough exterior. “You got the results, then.”

  “Let’s get inside.” Hal waves his arm similar to the way he would shoo his Persian cat, Rebel, off the kitchen counter.

  Kat takes the steps and shoots a wary glance over her shoulder at Bryce, wondering just what he is about to say. She follows her Uncle into his office off the foyer at the front of the house. The shuffling of their heels on the hardwood floor awakens a somber echo.

  “This room was the old parlor when the house was built in 1879. More families moved to town and a lot of small farmers took up cotton-growing after the Emancipation Revival and Reunion of 1875,” Kat says. Her insipid tone feels more like a lull before the storm. She rolls her eyes when she gets the ‘You’re kidding me?’ look from both men.

  A mahogany desk, dinged by decades of use, and a rusty leather chair that squeaks when it rocks on a swivel base sit to one side of a large, locked cabinet with medical supplies. An old-timey scale and waist-high examination table under a lifetime of framed diplomas, certificates, along with Uncle Hal’s first dollar bill, are arranged on the wall.

  Kat can remember checking her doll’s heart, ears and nose on that table, using an old stethoscope and otoscope her Uncle gave her. Though it is seldom used anymore, the room has the same essence and smell — a mixture that makes her think of ether, but is mostly from excessive use of alcohol and other disinfectants over a long period. She ponders why the acerbic medicinal scents of a Doctor’s office are not replaced with the aroma of fresh-baked cookies or perhaps warm butterscotch and peppermint patties.

  Although Doctor Harold Bastion McIntosh’s office remains open and prepped for emergency situations, those instances are few and far between. A lot of his patients have slowly transferred to a shiny new clinic in town where they point and click their way through a patient’s history, and totally miss the good old-fashioned interaction of lifetime relationships. Many of his loyal friends who stuck with him over the years have either moved or passed away. Drop-ins who show at his office often come with minor complaints and Hal is happy to treat them.

  For a moment the air is void of oxygen as both physician and medical student take turns sizing one another up in a probing, unemotional stare.

  “Won’t you have a seat?” Hal gestures to the twin chairs across from him and sits down at his desk. Catching Kat’s pleading expression for mercy, he relaxes back and reshapes the muscles of his face to cause less concern. He watches Bryce McKenzie do the same and it almost makes him smile. He clears his throat.

  “Yes, Mr. McKenzie, the results are in.”

  “And?”

  “I had to jump through hoops and call in a precious favor to contain the shakeup this could cause. I can guarantee you the Center of Disease Control would be all over it. Where have you been traveling, son?”

  Bryce’s elbow slips off the arm of his chair. He almost loses his composure over the implication. “I’m not going to play games, Doctor. I think you deserve an explanation.” Bryce shifts his gaze to Kat whose eyes are as round as saucers.

  Hal’s chair creaks as he leans forward and steeples his hands on the polished surface of his desk. For effect, he pulls a manila folder to the forefront.

  “Malaria. I had the tests run twice. There is no mistaking the impact of a disease like this. Our Global Initiative has not seen a case in over fifteen years, even in the most remote areas of Nigeria and Pakistan,” Hal’s bushy ey
ebrows furrow.

  “I didn’t get it there, or here, for that matter. Where I’ve been malarious disease runs rampant, supposedly due to swamp exhalations. But we know better, don’t we? In fact, it is caused by a parasitic protozoan, a parasite transmitted to the human bloodstream by the bite of an infected mosquito.” Bryce pauses, remembering, “Those poor ignorant souls. They died by the thousands, with no help for it.” He suppresses an unhealthy need to chuckle. A sudden touch has him glance at Kat’s hand, which is squeezing the bejeebers out of his forearm.

  “Well, spit it out, man,” Hal barks.

  “You see, Doctor, I’ve traveled from another time. 1863.”

  “I object, sir!” Hal comes roaring up out of his chair. His instinct is to protect his niece who is sitting not a foot from this potential maniac. The loaded gun in his top desk drawer can be reached as quick as lightning.

  “Of all the cockamamie,” he reacts, but stiffens and tugs at his coat as if he is trying to create order. There is further alarm when the young man rises to match his stance.

  “Kat, leave us now,” Hal orders, his jaw working.

  “No way, Uncle.” Kat flies up from her seat, the color of her face heightened in a rush of nerves. “Please, listen to him. He is telling the truth.”

  “Kat’s right. I am telling the truth, sir,” Bryce commits, keeping his voice low. “Shouldn’t you check on Wyatt, Kat?”

  Kat’s eyes dart to the door. “I guess, but—”

  “We will be all right. Go check on the boy, Kat,” Uncle Hall says firmly and hurries Kat to the door. Closing it quietly behind her, he turns and folds his arms. His face shows a crusty demeanor with all the wrinkles of experience.

  “Okay, out with it.”

  “A long story, but it’s true. I have traveled from another time. From 1863.” The details run through Bryce’s mind, each time a little stronger — 2013 to 1863, then back again. Bryce figures he and Jane are dialed into some unnatural rule that is preset to one hundred fifty year increments. The time continuum must run parallel, on the same corrupt clock and calendar.

  Hal stands motionless. One brow has arched in a hard, skeptical glare.

  “I have all my faculties, I assure you. You wanted an explanation and I am not about to lie. Kat knows,” Bryce says.

  “This is preposterous!” Hal booms.

  “Yes, it is, but I have enough proof for my claim. Kat found me still dressed in my 1863 getup,” Bryce says, peering down at his brogans. His Celtic key, a substantial piece of evidence, causes an ache at his ankle. “I met your ancestors at Sea Oaks, one hundred fifty years ago. I know Jane Peterson, uh, Jane Hopkins and met her husband on their wedding day. I can describe the finest detail. I met the McIntoshes, Captain and Chloe, their children. Hell, Millie, the original Millie the cat was even there. It was a festive reception with many guests attending.”

  This gets an anxious twitch from the man who looks to have aged a few years on the spot.

  “Your knowledge of history, no doubt.”

  “No. I have lived it. The war. Stonewall Jackson. I helped save his life, by the way. The Battle of Chancellorsville. The whole ball of wax.”

  Hal shoves his hands into the front pockets of his white coat. “That is quite a story, son.”

  “A true story. It was Kat’s idea to come to you, you know, with my condition. I’ve been pretty sick.”

  “My niece,” Hal says, trepidation returning to the features of his face where two sharp eyes never miss a beat.

  “I’m concerned about that, too,” Bryce offers intuitively. “I’m sorry to involve her, or any of you in this. She’s been a real trooper, though. Quick thinking, I’ll give you that. And two steps ahead of me most of the time. You must be proud of her.”

  The flattery is lost on Hal, noted by an audible grunt. Crossing over to the cabinet, he produces a key hidden on the top under a bloomed-out violet in a self-watering pot that is bone dry. Tacky paint causes one of the doors to rattle when he opens it.

  “Let’s try this for starters. It will take some wangling to get my hands on the original prescribed cure, if they still make it.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “What you have is life threatening. The CDC would place you in quarantine in a Richmond minute.”

  “You mean, New York minute,” Bryce corrects.

  Hal ignores the remark, “Lord knows how one might explain this inexplicable affliction.” Lifting his reading glasses up to his nose to double-check the label on the pill bottle, “This targets the apicoplast of the parasite. If it doesn’t work, we always have the stronger treatment.”

  Bryce looks at the bottle. “Antibiotics,” although the name is not familiar. “I appreciate your help, more than you know. Don’t you have questions?”

  “The other medicine I gave you, did it reduce your symptoms?” Hal continued his train of thought.

  “So far. Yes sir, thank you, Doctor McIntosh.”

  Hal examines the man who appears comfortable in his clothes, not a bit outdated. “You seem quite at home in this time.”

  “Oh, these. Kat came up with a change. They belong to her ex.”

  “I see.” His niece has always had a good head on her shoulders, but he expects emotions are at play. “How did you come to meet?”

  “Actually, she picked me up.” Bryce jerks at the connotation and corrects, “A truck pulled over just before Kat stopped. One minute I was at Sea Oaks in 1863, the next, I found myself on the ground beside a dark road . . . here in 2013.”

  Bryce puzzles again over what could have caused him to wake in a different place. Surely the explosion and restoration of his cells in their most basic form of molecules and atoms would impact his brain. Perhaps the effects are worse each time he travels through. “By my clothes, I looked every bit authentic. They thought I was a Civil War reenactor.”

  “Brogans,” Hal recognizes the period shoes the man wears. “They look like they have seen better days.”

  Bryce nods, “They have traveled through the backcountry of Virginia, from Chancellorsville through the Carolinas to Savannah. A lot of it on foot.”

  Hal reaches for the black hat Bryce had dropped on the corner of his desk. His movements are slow and purposeful, a behavior he has learned in times of crisis and confusion.

  “I bought that in Savannah, before I rode to Darien . . . and Sea Oaks.”

  After studying it for a moment, Hal turns it over and looks at how it was made inside. “Nice,” is his only comment.

  “I am initially from this time, but you see, sir, things are a tad different from what I know. I saw a cable show once that was narrated by Morgan Freeman, Through The Wormhole. It’s only speculation, but I think it holds a grain of truth.”

  “Morgan who?”

  “My point precisely. You’ve never heard of him, have you? Award winning Hollywood movie star — Glory, Driving Miss Daisy, Bruce Almighty?”

  “Afraid not,” Hal snorts his impatience. “What are you getting at?”

  “I think time is split into individual dimensions like slices of bread and there is a means to travel from one slice to another. That’s the only way I can describe it. What’s more, history can be altered. I came from a modern-day world where the American Civil War ended with the South’s surrender to the North. A United States was formed in the aftermath under one flag, led by one president. General Lee surrendered to General Grant in 1865 at—” Bryce turns to the light rap on the door and waits for Doctor McIntosh to answer it.

  “Come in, dear. How’s Wyatt?” Uncle Hal says, monitoring his tone.

  “Eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a glass of chocolate milk in front of the TV. He’s about to eat me out of house and home. I see another growing spell coming on,” Kat chuckles. “How are you getting on, Uncle? Are you okay?”

  “I reckon I’ve been better. You fell for all this?”

  “Hook, line and sinker,” Kat grins at Bryce. “It is sort of world shattering, is
n’t it? Please, don’t let me interrupt.”

  “Well,” Bryce, who stood when Kat came into the room, plunks down in his chair and waits for Uncle Hal and Kat to take theirs. “I was just saying, the time I’m in now, your time, is very different. Hell, I’m learning just how different it really is.”

  “Uncle, I was telling Bryce that Jane Hopkins had a daughter. We were looking for the Bible with a record of it.”

  “Henrietta Hopkins. They called her Henny,” Uncle Hal says. “I heard tell the girl was the spitting image of her mother. The same green eyes and fiery red hair. And a stubbornness and temper to match. Henny died very young. Mortality was high in those days.”

  “Is that so?” Bryce remarks, wondering how many times a body can take a shock.

  “You knew her?” Hal’s question is almost breathless.

  “Oh no, not her daughter. I was there and gone before that happened. I only know Jane, Henny’s mother. We’re childhood friends, grew up together in Vidalia.”

  “I know the town. Built around an ol’ rail yard, like so many.” Uncle Hal’s eyes flicker, “Don’t tell me—”

  “Yep, Jane is a time traveler too.”

  Bryce can’t make himself talk about Jane in past tense. His thoughts go to her gravestone and an involuntary shiver overcomes him. “She left us in 2012, vanished off the face of the earth at Fort Pulaski.”

  “Pulaski, you say. Go on, son.”

  “Well, disappearing like that, everyone thought Jane was dead. No one had a better explanation. But I never gave up. I spent all my free time at that fort snooping around for something, anything. Like, how can someone just disappear? A year later, shock of all shockers, I end up in 1863 myself at the very spot where Jane made her exit. We both traveled to the same place, same period.”

  “How does it work? Time travel, I mean,” Kat is emboldened to ask by her excitement. She feels like a scientist who has discovered evidence that supports the Big Bang theory or uncovered the existence of another universe.