The Celtic Key

by Barbara Best

  “I was afraid I’d never see you again.” Matt holds his wife at arm’s length for quick inspection. Running his knuckles along her cheek, he brushes at a splotch of flour near her ear.

  “You are so beautiful,” he whispers. Playfully tweaking her chin with the side of his finger, he folds her into a warm embrace.

  Jane hugs tight to Matt, receiving his deep kiss and returning it twofold.

  Nothing else in the world matters but this moment, the two of them, together. She molds into his body as one, rubbing her face in the rough gray wool of his lapel, wrapping her arms around his strong chest and feeling the muscles in his back. Her emotions rise to the highest peak of fervor and then slowly begin to settle. She can tell he is thinner.

  Matt gives his wife time.

  The mule draws to a stop next to them and brays with excitement, showing its teeth. Nodding its head, it loudly snorts moisture out its large nostrils.

  Jane’s own snort echoes the poor beast’s sentiment.

  “Oh, man!” She crinkles her nose and takes a step back.

  “Major Hopkins stinks to high heaven, no?” Colette interrupts from her seat on the wagon’s spring bench. She laughs at Jane’s reaction. “So bad, the rain could not wash it off. We wondered when you would notice.”

  “Colette!” Jane cries. “I can’t believe you did it. How can I ever thank you. Thank you both.”

  Jane’s shimmering green eyes fix back on her husband, absorbing every detail of his handsome features, his hair crowned by the last light of a fiery sunset. He is perfect to her. He is alive and okay. She suddenly wants to go over every inch of his body to make sure. The thought makes her quiver deep inside.

  Her euphoric moment tries to linger, but Jane’s senses slice through her amorous haze. “Geez, Matt, what on earth is that smell?”

  “Cabbage, my love. I am afraid it has ruined my great coat.”

  “Rotten cabbages,” Gael Burt corrects, a bit gruffly. He pulls the brake lever and tips his hat. He is made uncomfortable by public displays of affection.

  “The perfect decoy,” Matt insists. “Simply brilliant. Our brave Mr. Burt and Mademoiselle Colette’s execution of Mr. Staff’s plan led to one glorious escape. We sailed through the gates of Hell in a brisk headwind of Union soldiers.”

  “You should have seen Quartermaster Yancey, Jane,” Colette crows. “The old buzzard was simply livid, shouting choice words at poor Mr. Burt I cannot repeat. We were both dismissed by the flick of his hand. He could not get away from our stench fast enough.”

  “Colette is right,” Matt smiles. “Yancey was repulsed by the putrid vegetation brought to bear and fiercely rejected the delivery. And, coincidentally me in the process, so cleverly buried within. No one would get anywhere near Mr. Burt’s wagon. It was a fitful ride, but I am here. Thank the Lord above.”

  “Amen,” Gael concludes. He figures this might be his first and last mission and congratulates himself on that new fancy plow he will own in time for next season’s planting.

  “We’ll get you a bath.” Jane tucks her hand into the crease of her husband’s arm. “You smell worse by the minute.”

  “There’s no time, Mrs. Hopkins. You must abide my sullied condition a bit longer. We leave immediately and travel under cloak of darkness. I will have to plunge myself into some frigid tributary along our route.”

  Matt looks up into the sky, “A full moon will guide us this night. The farther we get from here, the better. We go south and home to safety.”

  “The cabbages?” Jane asks, glancing toward the back of the wagon.

  “Dumped on the road a few miles back,” Gael says. “Still had some use for ’em. Them soldiers were quick to march by,” he chuckles. “That rancid heap, just sittin’ there crawling with maggots, put ’em on edge. They did double time.”

  “Yes, we were worried about you,” Jane says, her expression serious. “They marched past here with two of your good hens and some potatoes.”

  “We hid in the woods,” Colette smiles triumphantly.

  “We hid in the cellar,” Jane counters, grinning with happiness.

  “Well,” Gael sniffs, and rubs his nose on his sleeve. “Unless you two lovebirds plan to ride, reckon you’ll meet us up at the house. It’s a might chilly and I gotta family waitin’.” He clicks his tongue and jerks the reins, “Get-up, mule!”

  E P I L O G U E

  TRAIL OF TEARS, APRIL 1864

  Spring arrives in a chattering, harmonious chorus of life. Trees reset the landscape in a succulent potpourri of leaf, bark and seed. Aromas of spicy cedar and pine, sweet birch and sassafras, hickory, plum, and pawpaw revive the senses. Plant species that inhabit the forest floor grow their roots deep into damp, rich soil that smells of clay. The perfume of budding wild jasmine and honeysuckle carries occasionally on a shifting breeze.

  The change in seasons is a welcome relief to the travelers. Bathed in the sun’s golden rays and penetrating heat, the land they must cross to the west is slowly defrosting at higher elevations. The last snow has fallen and the days are getting longer. Their small party takes a brief respite on their trek through Georgia’s foothills in the shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

  “The animals need a break,” Bryce announces. He throws up his hand to signal the others. “This is as good a place as any, right Lucky?” His horse whinnies and paws the ground with his front hoof. Both Lucky and White Owl’s horse-with-no-name are stolen property that originally belonged to the Union Cavalry. They are trained for warfare and trail riding.

  Sweeping the area with his striking blue eyes, White Owl grunts his approval and dismounts his horse.

  “Over there,” Bryce directs Jane who has become adept with her pair of oxen. “Do you need help?”

  “Nope,” Jane chirps. She knows enough about driving the team with their curled horns and sliding yoke to be dangerous. Actually, she prefers an ox’s slow methodical gait and disposition to a crabby mule, any day. The men see them as practical. The massive beasts cost less, eat less, and can pull just about anything. Oxen play a significant role in the expansion westward.

  “Whoa, now. How’s that?” she says, and waits for Bryce’s okay.

  The total shock of finding an effectively robust and disease-free Bryce McKenzie again in 1863 gave Jane’s psyche such a jolt. In fact, she passed out. As dead as a doornail, they say, when she spied her best friend a few miles out from Sea Oaks. It was on the last leg of their journey from Massachusetts.

  Jane had just climbed down from their carriage to help Matt water the horses, when Bryce and Becky Maccaw’s new husband, Billy Bacon, came riding their way. In letters from Anna Hopkins and the McIntoshes that were waiting for Matt and Jane in Savannah, they mentioned White Owl, but kept the unexpected return of Bryce McKenzie a surprise.

  “It is a marvel, it seems,” Matt had teased her in front of their friends, “Fainting has become a rather peculiar habit of Jane’s whenever the man shows himself.”

  On their tedious trip southward, Jane, Matt, Sophie and Colette stayed a couple of days at the Hopkins family home. James Isaac, who suffers debilitating arthritis, was near bursting with glee when they turned up. It added a spring to his step that everyone was happy to see.

  “Some, dey give up hope,” James Isaac’s yellowed eyes brimmed with tears. “But I know’d diffrunt. Dem ol’ Yankees cain’t keep a good man down. I’s sure you’d come home with the missus. Yessah, Mistah Matt, sure as eggs is eggs.”

  After a brief rest, the travelers loaded a backboard wagon with supplies and Matt prepared the family’s carriage with Jane’s horse tied to the back. One more stop was made to check on Summerwoods.

  The Hopkins’ thriving plantation is among the sad casualties of war. The family had taken up residence in their Savannah home when the men went off to fight. They learned the sprawling property was ransacked and half burned by Yankee bummers not long after. Matt is satisfied with the progress of his new overseer. Mr. Roberts is a kind man who
is doing his best under dire circumstances.

  Nothing pleases Matt more than to know their freed slaves are getting fair treatment. Many have stayed on to make Summerwoods their home. “It is the least we can do for them. They’re family,” Matt said. They all know there is a lot of rebuilding to do.

  Jane watches the oxen swish their bony tails when two large monarch butterflies flutter by. “Good luck,” she says. Twisting her neck and rolling her shoulders, she mumbles, “Geez, I’m stiff.”

  Sophie peeks her head through the opening in the canvas bonnet of their covered wagon, “Are we stopping?”

  “Yep. How are you feeling?”

  “Bloody miserable,” Sophie cracks. They have all conspired to make her rest for an hour each morning and afternoon.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Oh, I’m cool,” Jane winks. “Though my bladder’s about to pop.” She is beginning to understand Sophie’s frequent need to go.

  “Beat you to it,” Sophie may not be as graceful these days, but she is the first to climb down. The vigorous exercise of their new life has kept her in great shape. So far, her pregnancy has been a healthy one, virtually trouble-free.

  “Is anyone hungry?” Colette calls out. “Whoa there, mules.” She draws back on the reins to maneuver her wagon close. She squeezes Wyatt’s knee playfully, making him squirm with mirth.

  “Avez-vous faim?” she asks.

  “Oui, Mademoiselle Colette,” Wyatt says. “Mon estomac gronde. My stomach rumbles.”

  “And in German?”

  “Es rumort in meinem Magen oder Bauch.”

  “Sehr gut.”

  Colette is improving Wyatt’s spoken French and teaching him a second language. In the evenings he practices reading from the Bible, and she tells him stories about the times they live in. He is an eager pupil and can recite and spell all thirteen states in the Confederacy, counting the western territory. He knows Federal states too. Learning to write is the most difficult task for the seven-year-old who celebrated his birthday a week ago. It takes a good scrubbing with cornmeal to get an astonishing amount of ink off his hands.

  “Well, Monsieur, we need to build a fire, no?” Colette adds cheerfully.

  By quick calculations, it is determined their supplies will last until they reach Fort Payne over the Alabama border. If everything goes well, their small band will cross the great Mississippi River to Arkansas.

  Their destination is a place called Tahlequah in the foothills of the Ozark Mountains. Tahlequah is in northern Oklahoma territory and exists some forty-three years before Oklahoma will become a state. It is an immense grassland the Cherokee people were relocated to by government authorities during the Trail of Tears. White Owl says Tahlequah means just two, and two should be enough.

  Colette thrives on living history as much as Jane. Although they take turns with chores, she gravitates to cooking over a campfire. Everyone agrees she has a flair for it. Eager to learn, she has encouraged White Owl to show her the art of 1800s food preparation. When he and Wyatt come back from hunting with a kill, Colette stands ready with her skinning knife. She can skin a rabbit and gut a fish quicker than anyone in the group — except White Owl, of course.

  When Jane returns from her trip to the woods, Sophie is waiting.

  “Better?” Sophie asks, noting a change in her friend. Seeing Jane’s gaze drift to her bulging belly, she snickers, “I am so glad to be rid of that corset, that I could bounce like Tigger.”

  “Tigger the tiger? Hardly,” Jane scoffs. “Don’t get me wrong, but you sure have gotten big, Sophie.”

  “Gee, thanks a lot!” Sophie crosses her eyes, making Jane laugh out loud. “I still have a few days yet,” she says with a mother’s instinct.

  The strain and hurt feelings between the two women have mended. The friendship they enjoyed during what they call, the before days, has bloomed once more. Their camaraderie is as fresh as the new season.

  “It’s so nice to think you’ll be with me, Jane. You know, when my time comes,” Sophie says meaningfully. “Thank God we have a doctor and his bag of tricks, too.”

  “A doctor wannabe,” Bryce says, overhearing the ladies’ conversation. Tending the animals, he migrates to the other side of the wagon out of earshot.

  “Aren’t you scared just a little?” Jane asks.

  “Not really. I’m anxious to have my little one in my arms. It is the greatest reward for my labors.”

  Sophie promptly throws her hand to the top of her head, “Wyatt Bastion Logan,” she exclaims in her I-mean-business voice. “Get up from there. Now. You’ll be filthy-dirty.” She has taken to mothering the child. Wyatt wrenched her heart the moment she laid eyes on him. The poor boy lost his mother, his family and home. Somewhere in the recesses of Sophie’s mind, she feels partly responsible.

  “Wyatt is doing better,” Bryce pauses for a moment to stand beside Jane. “He worried his maman. Kat said he was having nightmares about dying. I think the boy has a sixth sense. The bad dreams are gone from what I can tell.” He sighs, “Gotta say I’m a lot better, my darn self.”

  Going west is a potent elixir for his soul, a new beginning Bryce and the others desperately need. They have made a well-designed escape from the jaws of evil and hopefully without a trace. The families of Captain McIntosh and Major Hopkins will guard their whereabouts at any cost. Sophie and Colette declare the portal is closed. He will not say otherwise.

  People with checkered pasts, Bryce smiles to himself. In this day and age, it is easy to disappear into vast and untamed territories, never to be seen or heard from again.

  “Look how brown and wiry he’s getting,” Bryce observes. He pushes his favorite hat up with his index finger and wipes his hands on a rag.

  “Well, it’s little wonder. The boy’s totally infatuated with White Owl. I fear he’s going feral.”

  “Yeah, Wyatt follows White Owl around like a child after the Pied Piper. Says he wants to be a Cherokee when he grows up. He’s just a kid. Let him sow a few oats.”

  “White Owl thinks he’s the chosen one for his people,” Jane reminds. “The boy in his vision with a girl who bears my likeness.” She takes a long drink of water and swirls the canteen to judge how much is left. “Sophie and Colette, of course, beg to differ. They both say Sophie’s son has a future with the Native Americans. It is predicted.”

  “Is that so?” Bryce grunts indifference and pats the side of the ox. He moves on to inspect the wheels and underside of the second wagon.

  Bryce is sick to death of time travel. The day he dug a hole and lowered sweet, innocent Kat into the cold black earth, he decided he’s basically done. This whole wicked, sinful mess can go straight to hell.

  In a dense, secluded spot no one will ever find, Bryce laid Chloe Katriona McIntosh-Logan to rest along with his Celtic key, wrapped in the jade-green silk fabric with tiny pink rosebuds Kat had clutched in her hand. He stacked heavy stones and piled branches on her fresh grave. Young Wyatt will never know what really happened to his mother. He misses his folks something fierce, but finds solace in the belief his maman is alive and well, only in another place. With a child’s resilience and acceptance, he has let go. For both their sakes, Bryce is convinced it is best to bury the past and get on with living.

  Feeling Jane’s presence, Bryce looks over, “What?” He softens at her pretty smile.

  “Oh, I was just thinking how great it is to have you here, Bryce McKenzie.” Jane remembers the Japanese expression Bryce’s grandfather used and murmurs the word, “Kenzoku.” Her voice cracks with emotion. They share a rare bond, a common destiny.

  “Shucks, ma’am! Don’t go and get all mushy on me,” Bryce splits a silly grin in fun, looking her up and down.

  It could very well be Jane is pregnant now. If she’s not, she will be soon, with the girl-child in White Owl’s vision. The Indian is adamant about the pivotal role Jane’s daughter will play in the course of history. Bryce also knows about the untimely deaths of Jane and h
er daughter.

  The sight of Jane’s headstone is burned into his brain. He prays his being here sufficiently changes everything enough to ward off tragedy. If she should fall ill, or any of them for that matter, he is ready with a good many modern-day medicines and a sizable knowledge of herbs and old-fashioned remedies. Uncle Hal helped him see to that.

  Satisfied, Jane goes to lend Colette a hand in making food for their small party.

  Nearby, Sophie bends with the awkwardness of a giraffe to help Wyatt gather his toy lead soldiers. The tiny painted figures with red uniforms depict soldiers in the Revolutionary War. Captain McIntosh gave the set to Wyatt as a gift before they parted Sea Oaks. The boy and his famous ancestor became instant buddies without grasping the reason for their attachment. Wyatt brushes the knees of his pants off and starts gathering sticks with Sophie to feed Colette’s small fire.

  “I’m starving. Where’s White Owl going?” Jane arches her back and winces.

  “We have more miles to travel before dark. He has gone to scout ahead.” Colette eyes Jane closely. “How are you doing, mon ami?” She suspects Jane’s aching back and increased appetite could be something more.

  “Oh, I’m fine.”

  On the fringe of a great forest, Jane scans the horizon of an open field and knoll.

  “Where is that man of mine?” she says. Matt will accompany them as far as Fort Payne before turning back to Virginia to report for duty. Concessions have been made and he is granted furlough to get his affairs in order. Jane can count the months they have spent together on one hand. “It seems I am always looking for him.”

  “Your major and Millie both,” Colette chuckles. Her attention is drawn to a woeful meow. “There you are. Miss Millie knows where the treats are, don’t you kitty?” She offers Millie a small scrap of salt pork, before tossing the rest into a cast iron pan.

  The polished figure of a career officer and gentleman comes into view. “I see him,” Jane says.

  “And so you do,” Colette grins. “I’m good here. You go.”