by Barbara Best
“All I can figure is Jane and I have some kind of genetic imprint that allows us, you know, to travel. I was tricked into going,” Bryce huffs and leans back. “A pawn in an evil game. What a joke.”
“By Salva. Bryce was tricked by Salva, we think,” Kat volunteers. Seeing Bryce’s exasperation, she drops her gaze to her lap. “Well, that is what the letter said.”
“What letter?” Hal bolts upright.
“Go ahead,” Bryce concurs. He cracks a smile and concedes to Kat’s enthusiasm. Where did this woman with the bobbed red-hair cuteness and sparkle that is contagious come from? He thinks of Chloe McIntosh, the long-ago mistress of Sea Oaks, and can declare, firsthand, many similarities. But Kat is more animated and full of life.
“You know the box I found, Uncle? The one with the Celtic symbols and combination lock. Bryce opened it. He knew the combination.”
“You opened the box?” Hal’s voice trembles faintly. Is the man a con artist, a magician, a scammer? Hal can’t decide which.
“I did, sir. And, it’s not a crazy stunt.” Bryce matches Uncle Hal’s squinted glower. Somehow it has become important that these two believe him. He thinks his sanity and ultimate survival are linked in some way.
“You read my mind, Mr. McKenzie.”
“Not intentionally,” Bryce says.
“Bryce and I found a letter in the box. It’s from Jane Hopkins, in her own hand. She made it clear the Salva Society and another group I have never heard of are up to no good.”
“Where is this letter? I must see it.”
“Maman?” Wyatt had slipped into the room undetected. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “Are we going home soon?”
“Yes, sweetheart. Give us just a minute. Go outside and wait by the car, okay?”
Kat waits for the sound of the screen door on the porch to slam shut before she finishes. “We should go. It is still a drive yet to Sea Oaks and Auntie will have dinner ready. We’ll be at the Old Homestead, Uncle.”
“Look, I’ve caused enough trouble,” Bryce speaks up. “You can’t want me tagging along. I mean, I’d completely understand.” He can feel relief radiating from Uncle Hal’s body at the direction he’s going. “There’s no need to carry this further. Doctor McIntosh has—”
“No. I said we,” Kat interrupts before Bryce can say more. There is determination in her tone.
“Honestly, I have no way to repay you, Kat. And, I’m not about to be a kept man,” Bryce laughs, and quickly apologizes for his indiscretion.
Why aggravate poor ol’ Uncle Hal further. He has had a severe blow to the senses. By the ruddy sheen that spreads from his nose to his cheeks and the standing vein on his forehead, it would not be a bad idea to check the man’s blood pressure.
“Right now I’m broke. Anything and everything from my past life is non-existent in this time. All I have on me are Confederate bills, which can further prove I am who I say I am.”
“Bills? Let me see them,” Hal’s interest is piqued. He puts out his hand.
“I’m afraid it’s all I have,” Bryce says and shrugs. He pulls the wad from his pocket, unfurls the notes and lays them on the desk. The Lincoln penny that had caught in the middle rolls and Bryce slaps it down with his hand. “My bills, and a 2012 penny,” he smiles.
The sight of the Confederate currency causes a resounding gasp in the room.
Hal swipes his chin with his hand, “Holy Mackerel!”
Chapter 64
THE SIMPLISTIC SYMPHONY
Bryce links his fingers behind his head. He gazes up at a gazillion stars. The simplistic symphony of night sounds, the chirping of crickets in the dense woods and beating of water against the bank of the Altamaha River give him inner peace. His mind travels back to the many nights he spent in the wilderness with White Owl. He remembers his bearskin and sleeping under a black canvas sky. Bryce misses his friend and wonders how he is doing. He hopes the wise ol’ Cherokee who gave him an Indian name and taught him how to listen to nature was able to join his brothers in the West.
“So long ago, huh?” he says into the stillness. Bryce bends down to pet Millie-the-umpteenth. The cat has decided to follow him around like a puppy. Wherever he goes, Millie is always nearby.
Bryce is beginning to like his quiet existence. His stay at the Old Homestead is very hush-hush. Lacy, Aunt Gracie, Miz Jenkins and Wyatt are sworn to secrecy. He is recovering from a serious illness and needs his privacy.
Bryce smiles at the vision of young Wyatt’s animated face when Kat explained this to him. The boy’s eyes glowed with a child’s excitement upon sensing intrigue. Kat winced at her son’s enthusiasm. She tweaked his nose and said he played too many video games. Mystery-detective games are his favorite. Bryce thinks Wyatt is a lot like his mother.
Slumping back in an Adirondack chair, one of six that encircle a stone fire pit, Bryce enjoys the lambent display of two large pieces of hard oak engulfed in flames. They are part of a dead trunk he cut with a sharp ax earlier in the day when no one was around. A limb drops and spews twinkling embers into the atmosphere. The tranquility gives him a moment to mull over events in this new life of his.
His time here began with a piece of good fortune. He still cannot get over how much his Confederate paper currency is worth in the present-day Confederate States of America.
Kat had quickly volunteered to go with a fabricated story to Tuttle’s Antique Shop in town. Uncle Hal assured them Mr. Tuttle is not only a good buddy of his but could also be trusted. The man would be discrete and treat Kat right.
The value of Bryce’s Confederate bills had been determined by the condition, dates, and a set of numbers printed on the face. The shopkeeper, an authorized dealer and currency expert, said he has never seen the likes in all his years.
To discourage Mr. Tuttle from sharing the source of his rare find, Kat settled on a lesser price for one of the bills so there would be some wiggle room on the resale side. The shopkeeper eagerly agreed to keep the original owner of the currency anonymous and was almost beside himself when Kat told him she had others. She gave the man time to verify authenticity and promised to deal with him exclusively in the future.
Bryce received the whopping sum of $9,875 in new cash for two 1861 ten-dollar banknotes with the blazing orange underprint. It will cover his expenses for a while. Although health care is free, he insisted on compensating Doctor McIntosh for his trouble. Hal is a hero in his book. The proper dose of an obscure antibiotic has cured his case of malaria. Happily, there aren’t many side effects from the treatment. Except for a touch of insomnia and monstrous bad taste in his mouth, he is getting on nicely.
Hal has helped him in other ways. They have gathered an assortment of medical supplies one might need in the 1800s and disguised modern medications in small antique vials and bottles from Hal’s collection. Bryce accepted the man’s gift of a fine leather bag that is suitable for any 19th Century physician. Their efforts will be useful to Bryce when the time comes.
Bryce is pretty set on going back at some point. However, both Kat and her uncle have impressed on him, what’s the hurry. If time dimensions run parallel, Jane has a few critical years left before the fever takes her. She will even have a child by then.
What Bryce decides has powerful significance that will impact them all. This alone gives him great pause. He already knows from Jane’s letter that she lives long past the date on her tombstone. So, if it is even possible and he has a hand in her survival, just when exactly should he attempt to jump times again? That is the big question. For the present, as long as he goes unnoticed, as long as those around him are not in harm’s way and nothing weird happens, he will sit tight and prepare.
Now that Kat is back at work, Bryce is staying busy at the Old Homestead doing minor maintenance. The old place is an endless job of upkeep. He has never been much of a handyman, but he knows how to replace the stopper on a toilet, repair a leaky faucet, do a patch job on a wall, paint, and even polish the silver.
&nb
sp; In his spare time, he pores over Uncle Hal’s medical books that are filled with amazing breakthroughs he has never heard of. The cure for malaria is only one success on a list of many achievements. He and Hal have also explored the possibilities of treatments and composition of drugs within the limitations of 19th Century medicine.
“Christ,” Bryce grunts in surprise. His rumination is interrupted by the sudden weight on his lap. Millie has decided to settle on one of his legs.
“Shouldn’t you be out somewhere hunting prey?” he chuckles, and runs his hand along the cat’s smooth spine to the tip of her tail. “It feels good here, doesn’t it kitty?” Millie’s vibrating purr lulls him to a restful state. One side of her fur coat is much warmer from the heat of the fire.
Kat is probably on her way home with Wyatt by now. She does not seem to mind the longer commute to the Old Homestead where they have all taken up residence. Sometimes, she does not get home until well after dark. Bryce worries Kat is taking more days off than she probably should. She is obsessed by what she calls her find of the century and teases that includes him.
Bryce closes his eyes and can feel his muscles relax. Much has been accomplished in his short stay. Their research takes time, but they have made progress on the Celtic box. Kat is thrilled over the outcome. They are both aware of the box’s importance. Bryce smiles to himself. He and Kat work well together.
It was Kat’s idea to take the box apart for more clues. When Bryce warned they are tampering with a priceless artifact, Kat defended, “It is my box, sir, and not doing anyone a speck of good the way it is.”
In their careful examination, three additional symbols have been uncovered. They were hidden under an engraved copper plate that attaches the miniature medallion of the Lover’s Eye on the underside of the lid.
Soon, they discovered not all the symbols on the Celtic box are Druid in origin. In fact, the combination of symbols includes Native American hieroglyphics that are much like the Celts. They have clearly matched patterns to a prehistoric Indian civilization. The symbols are among the oldest petroglyphs or rock carvings found on the North American continent. To their amazement, a hand-forged example of one — a series of four connected spirals — is set in the bow of his Celtic key. It means never-ending cycles and eternal life.
William Bartram’s personal journals further illustrate their findings. The famous naturalist’s precious pages, tied into a neat bundle by a strand of twine made of horsehair, are surprisingly thorough. With it are two brittle volumes, not related to his work, but revealing mystical secrets of the ancient ones, the Celts of Scotland.
Bryce remembers how Kat explained it, “William Bartram gave our little box to Jack McIntosh sometime in the 1700s as a gift. I think Bartram gave Jack these journals, too, for safekeeping. Apparently someone wanted to keep all this quiet.”
Kat is sure there are other hidden treasures on the property. Hal, who has been following their progress, says Kat has an innate ability to sniff things out with the nose of a bloodhound. She found the dusty documents and box in a wall behind a removable panel on a library shelf in Captain’s study a short time before Bryce arrived.
No one really knows why it was hidden. Maybe Captain McIntosh found out the box was opened and got wind of what really happened. It is possible Jane told him about the key. Perhaps someone hid the box and Celtic memorabilia to protect the family. Any association with the occult and its practices would be misunderstood and shunned by the good Christian people of their day.
Kat and Bryce have spent hours scouring the bound pages written in Bartram’s own hand. In the creases of his journals, they often found small bird feathers, bits of seed, and dried plant clippings that crumbled at their touch.
Bryce explicitly remembers Kat’s discovery of something even more interesting.
“I don’t recognize this,” Kat said.
“What?” Bryce had come to love an old armchair in the attic slash makeshift office. Stretching his arms high into the air in a yawn, he shuffled over to Kat’s side. “Do you know it’s well past midnight?”
Kat bumped Bryce with her shoulder, “Who cares about the time. Look at this.” She moved the book closer to the milky-white glass kerosene lamp. The attic in the Old Homestead is not properly wired for electricity.
The contents of Bartram’s journals, the meticulous outline of experiences in the Georgia wilderness and beautiful illustrations of the Native Americans are impressive. Just as fascinating are the weathered and stained books on the Celts with long-forgotten incantations, spells, and spooky descriptions of ceremonial acts. On one of the pages, Kat noticed a few faded notes written in pencil on the inside margins.
Bryce blinked to clear his vision. “I swear that’s Jane’s handwriting. Look how it slants and the way she crossed her ‘Ts’.”
“She must have gone through these books too. To crack the code on the combination lock.”
The more they learn, the more concerned Bryce has become. Kat promises him no one, except Uncle Hal, is aware of her great find. Especially not the Salva Society. She said Uncle Hal made it clear, straight off, “those jayhawks” are not to know.
When Bryce asked why Hal is so down on Salva, Kat explained her uncle never got over the time they helped themselves to his prized collection of 16th and 17th Century medical instruments with no intention of returning any of it. The McIntoshes have depended on the liberal funding of the Salva Society and their far-reaching influence for decades. Salva is the main reason why their history and heritage are preserved. They also have an ongoing stake in the business and operation of their vast cotton fields and world-famous perfumery.
Bryce and Kat searched the Internet for more information on Bartram, the man, and about his trek through Georgia and Florida. In a day’s time, they were able to match more symbols to those of an ancient, long-extinct Native American people. Bartram noted the tribe existed before recorded history, during the Pre-Columbian era and prior to the arrival of European influence. Elders of the Cherokee call them the Nigohilvi or Always People.
“What do you suppose it means?” Kat had whispered to him in awe.
“It could mean immortal. It is just possible they were time travelers like Jane and I.”
That moment was a stunning revelation for both of them. Clearly, Bartram defined similarities between the cultures of Highland Scots and Native Americans. However, the lack of written record made it difficult for him to know more. He noted both cultures, Celtic and Native were pagans. They were a tribal people with established rituals, superstitions and folklore. Instead of little people, as with the Scots, Native Americans told stories about little animals. Both tribes worshiped the sky and studied the lunar and solar eclipses. In his own words, Bartram felt deciphering the codex of the Always People would unlock one of the supreme mysteries of the natural world.
Coming out of his musings for a minute, Bryce creases his eyes and waves his hand to clear the smoke. He breathes deeply and buttons the top two buttons of his flannel shirt. The fragrance of fresh night air fills his lungs. The warmth of the fire and Millie are all he needs right now. His eyes grow heavy and precious sleep finally takes over.
Chapter 65
HUSH OF SUSPENSE
Bryce dreams about Jane, the quaint country chapel and her wedding reception at Sea Oaks.
A servant-woman, Tessie, follows them out to the veranda. Her wise face is shiny-bright with curiosity and dread. Jane tells Tessie to keep an eye out. When they cross the yard, Bryce can see the golden glow of candlelight and hear the lively fiddle music coming from the windows of the manor house. Jane clutches her Celtic box a little too tightly. He watches her fingers thumb through the combination on the lock. Each dial gives an audible click as it falls into place. The hush of suspense, still as death, is wildly poignant. Jane’s hand quivers slightly as she opens the lid to reveal the dark subject of their intent. Their eyes meet. She is suddenly scared for him, “Are you sure?”
“Mistah Bryce,”
comes a frantic whisper. “Mistah Bryce.”
Millie’s front claws, sharp as needles, sink into Bryce’s jeans, painfully pricking his leg.
“Christ! What the—!” he yelps, shooting out of his seat. Sensing alarm, Millie silently scampers off. “Lacy?”
“Miz Kat needs you right away.”
“What’s up?”
“I don’t know, but she says, hurry.”
Bryce stumbles after Lacy down the woodsy path toward the Old Homestead. Within seconds, he recovers his coordination and makes a beeline across the lawn leading to the front of the house. A black shiny suburban with dark-tinted windows is parked in the gravel drive with the silhouette of a man leaning against the passenger door. He can see the pinpoint red glow of a cigarette. Another black suit is standing at the base of the porch steps with his arms folded like a bouncer at the door of a nightclub.
“What the hell is going on?”
The hulk of a man jerks his head in the direction of the front door. The window shades have been pulled shut. Bryce has no way of telling what he is walking in to, but it can’t be good.
“They’re inside, Mistah Bryce,” Lacy brushes past in a huff, trying to catch her breath.
Bryce takes the steps two at a time onto the porch and bursts into the entrance hall. The screen door slams behind him.
“Kat?” he calls out.
“In here,” comes a voice Bryce does not recognize.
Bryce walks into the light of the front room decorated in grand Victorian chic. A welcoming sight normally, but not now.
Kat is on the edge of the gold velvet settee, holding her handbag as if it might get away from her. Apparently, she and Wyatt have just gotten home. Wyatt is dressed in his school uniform and clinging to his mother’s arm, his eyes wide with worry.
“Won’t you come in, Mr. McKenzie?”
Bryce freezes, every inch of him is undecided. Only the quick dart of a stranger’s cold, exotic eyes toward the imposing men outside compel him to move forward. Lacy goes to stand by the woman at the fireplace, looking every bit like Millie when she has deposited a gory present on the back stoop.