When Darkness Comes

by W. Franklin Lattimore

  “Stephanie!” she cried. The three came to a stop, and Tara saw Tracy say something to the other officer, granting her permission to penetrate their protective custody. Tara threw her arms around the one who had been neither her acquaintance nor her enemy for nearly twenty-five years, and hugged her as if she had been reunited with a long-lost best friend.

  It took a moment, but Tara realized that Stephanie wasn’t responding to her elation, and after another long moment she stepped back.

  “Stephanie, are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  STEPHANIE DIDN’T KNOW how to respond. The hug was scaring her. When had anyone ever been so ecstatic to see her? And now that it was occurring, how could it possibly be this woman?

  Tara stepped back.

  “Stephanie, are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but before the first word could roll off her tongue she sobbed and fell to the ground. Tracy and the other officer attempted to catch her, but they were too late.

  On her hands and knees, she was now looking at the feet of the woman that she had tried to both mentor and destroy so many years ago. This was a fitting position for both of them; Stephanie humbled before the one who truly was the better woman.

  But then Tara’s knees bent and came to rest on the ground beside her. A gentle hand rested upon her head. Stephanie couldn’t bear the touch, the feel of compassion.

  Weak from emotional exhaustion, she rolled over onto her side and pulled into a fetal position and began weeping bitter tears. She didn’t care how it looked. She didn’t have to be strong any longer.

  She heard Tara speak to one of the officers. “Tracy, could one of you see if there’s a blanket in the house?”

  “You got it,” he said.

  After a minute, the tears began to subside, but she felt like she was slipping away. Her vision was getting cloudy and sounds seemed further away somehow.

  From somewhere she heard her name being said.

  “Stephanie? Stephanie, are you okay? Stephanie!”

  TARA WATCHED AS Stephanie slipped into shock.

  “Hurry with the blanket!”

  She heard movement behind her and to her right. She looked and saw paramedics rushing toward her.

  “Ma’am, please move back.”

  Tara did, and they took over.

  She sat on her rump, staring at the scene. A pair of hands gripped her shoulders from behind. She looked up. It was Brent.

  BRENT LOOKED DOWN at his wife. Her makeup was all but gone, her hair was a tangled mess, and she had the appearance of one who had walked through Hell and barely lived to fight another day. But Brent held only one opinion of her in that moment: she was simply beautiful. He couldn’t have created a greater specimen of a woman if he had all of God’s power and imagination.

  They were right for each other.

  They had chosen wisely.

  Movement caught his attention. He looked up to see the approach of three men; Eldredge and Given with Jim Connor cuffed between them. They were headed toward the Pittston chief’s cruiser immediately behind Brent.

  Eldredge had a satisfied grin on his face, but it was Connor’s look that grabbed his attention. It appeared that the chief of police was gauging the man in the bloodied Millsville uniform. He looked directly into Brent’s eyes as the passenger-side back door was opened. There was a deep-seated loathing that filled Connor’s eyes as he came to the realization of who the Millsville cop was.

  Brent’s mind stirred. He wasn’t filled with the hate that he expected to have upon encountering the Pittston chief. Clinging to both his wife and his God, the only thought in his mind at that moment was how pathetic and weak the chief appeared.

  Connor was made to sit in the back seat of his own police unit, and the door was closed.

  I doubt he’s sat back there before.

  Both John Eldredge and Lieutenant Given approached Brent. He took the lieutenant’s extended hand.

  “You gave up a lot in the past twenty-four hours, Sergeant Lawton. Eldredge has told me about your sacrifice.”

  “I was part of a great team which included your man, Eldredge, here. He and Corporal Tracy Larkin were indispensable. As for me, I was just protecting the ones that I love, Lieutenant.”

  “Be that as it may, if it hadn’t been for you, this community could have been subjected to a whole lot more death and deception over the long term. Please accept my gratitude.”

  “You’re welcome, Sir. And if I may… Thank you for allowing Corporal Larkin and me to work with you. You seem like a good man.” Brent smiled. “You’ve got a new and important job, Lieutenant. I hope you fill it well.”

  “Frankly, the chief’s job was never something I wanted, but I guess now I’m stuck with it.” He cut short a laugh. “I don’t think my wife’s going to be happy.”

  With that, the interim chief of police walked around the front of the cruiser and got into the car. He started the engine, performed a U-turn, then drove from the property.

  “Quite a night, huh?” said Eldredge as he approached.

  “Quite a night, indeed,” Brent agreed.

  “I’ve got a long night of …” John looked at his watch. “Strike that. A long morning of paperwork ahead of me. Talk with you later in the day?”

  Brent smiled and nodded. He watched as John began looking around the property for whatever else needed to be handled. There were still things that needed to be wrapped up before he, too, along with Tracy, could go back to “their” police station.

  TARA HAD BEEN content to sit and listen to all of the interaction. She enjoyed listening to the praise that was lauded upon her husband.

  She started to get up. Brent offered his hand. Taking it, she was pulled upward to stand before the man that she loved more than life itself. She looked down at the blood-soaked belly of his shirt and debated giving him a hug.

  Really, what is there to debate?

  Tara threw her arms around her husband. She felt his strong embrace wrap around her. A moment later, she felt another, smaller arm work its way around her waist. Tara turned her head to see the beautiful hair of her brave, inspiring, blessing of a daughter. She pulled her right arm out of the mesh and placed it around Jenna, drawing her into them as tightly as she could.

  It was an odd thought to have in the middle of a war zone, but this was where she wanted to be. Right here, within the arms of her daughter and held tightly against the broken ribs of her hero.

  Drosten stood atop the watchtower. He watched as masons continued to add stone around the wooden framework. It would be an impressive structure one day.

  His world had irreversibly changed over the past five weeks. He’d lost his king, his country, and probably many of his family and friends, as well. He supposed that the rawness of it would last for a long time.

  He had changed, too. Eight days on this island of Scotia had changed him more than the whole of his life in Pictland. It hardly seemed possible. These monks allowed him to be whomever he wished. They did not try to change him.

  But change him they did.

  Every single day they changed him.

  Hearing the creak of wood behind him, Drosten turned and watched as Abbot Conall reached the top of the stairs.

  They met eyes.

  The abbot huffed and puffed as he said, “Every time I climb those stairs I am convinced it will be the end of me.”

  Drosten smiled. “Have a seat, Abbot.”

  “That I will, lad. No need to offer.” The older man seated himself on the bench of new wood and looked at Drosten curiously. “Seems a repeat, you and I here like this.”

  Drosten nodded his head in agreement, remembering their first encounter.

  “I know why you were up here in these stoneworks the last time we talked,” said the Abbot. “Why so this time?”

  “It’s really no different a reason than the first time. It seems like the right place to rise above everything and reflect.” Unlike their first meeting, Drosten walked
over and sat next to the old monk. “I miss my home,” he admitted.

  The Abbot put his arm around the former warrior. “I know you do, my son. I know you do.”

  “At the same time, I’m growing in the belief that it is my home no more.”

  “And what of that? Have you made a decision?”

  “Aye. I have.”

  Drosten didn’t get the opportunity to draw the abbot deeper into conversation, as a call came from below.

  “Drosten!” came a young voice. “Drosten!”

  Drosten got up, walked to the wall, and peered down to the yard below. “Aed! What can I do for you?”

  “Come! It is done!”

  Drosten’s face lit up and he waved. “On my way!”

  He crossed back to the bench where the abbot was already getting up. “Apparently, I should have just called up and asked you to come down!” He shook his head with a sigh.

  Drosten laughed.

  DROSTEN AND THE abbot followed Aed into the scriptorium and to his writer’s cubicle. Resting atop a soft square of calfskin was the Key of Bridei, looking the same as it always had. That is, until Aed turned it over.

  The back had been inscribed beautifully, with such care that it rivaled the elegance of his own people’s work.

  “It is magnificently done, Aed!” Drosten exclaimed.

  “Indeed, boy! You will be a master before you know it!” echoed Abbot Conall.

  “Would you like for me to read it, Drosten?” The boy was beaming.

  “With all that is in me, aye!” he said with a laugh.

  “Where do I start?”

  “You know what I long to hear, but let me hear all of the section headings first.”

  “As you wish.”

  Aed sat on his high stool and picked up the key. Resting the weight of it on his lap, he rotated to his starting position. “They read as follows:

  “Sanguis. It means family. Nobilitatis. It means nobility, and is the closest word I know to royalty, without using the word for king. Terra. It means land. Militaris means warriors, and oceanus means ocean or sea.”

  Drosten nodded slowly and appreciatively. “And the last?”

  “Here, look.” Aed turned the key over so that Drosten and the Abbot could read it.

  “Ahh…” intoned the Abbot. “A most wonderful choice, Aed.”

  “What?” Drosten looked back and forth at both of the smiling monks. “What does it say?”

  Abbot Conall looked at the young apprentice who bowed his head in submission and relinquishment.

  “Thank you, Aed.” Looking Drosten in the eyes, the abbot explained. “The boy opted to not use the word religio. It would have been an appropriate header for what you asked the boy to inscribe. However, he chose to use two more-appropriate words to convey what you are wishing to reveal to those who may one day translate the key. It reads Fides Sollemnis, and it means Solemn Faith.”

  The words struck at Drosten’s heart and filled him with an even greater appreciation for the boy’s wisdom. “They are well chosen, Aed. Thank you.”

  The boy bowed his head in humble recognition. When the boy’s head came up again, Drosten saw a big and genuine smile.

  “May I read the rest to you?”

  “Yes, please. But will you do me the honor of reading it in my tongue?”

  The boy’s smile began to fade as he, once again, looked at the bottom of the key. His face became the epitome of honor and respect.

  Drosten lowered himself to his knees, his heart contrite. The words that he had asked Aed to inscribe were truth and they were holy and they reflected what his heart now contained.

  Aed spoke.

  “In these walls of Abbey at Kells, I, Drosten, warrior and keeper of this key, have traded old rags of scarlet for garments white as snow. I pledge my heart and my people to the single God of creation, Christ Jesus the King. May the past be lost and the future forever new.”

  What an amazing way to spend a wedding anniversary!

  Seventeen years! It hardly seemed possible. Then again, why had it taken so long for them to get married in the first place? It took seven years between the time they had met and the time they walked down the aisle.

  Tara sighed. On top of her remaining year of college after Brent had graduated, there had also been a lot of adjustments that had needed to take place.

  Thank you, God, that you made us patient enough to wait for each other.

  She sat staring out the window of the Scottish Citylink bus as they crossed over the choppy waters of Cromarty Firth. They were on the A9 highway on their way from Inverness Airport toward the Tarbat Peninsula of northern Scotland.

  Tara turned from the window to look at Brent, a big grin on her face. “I’m so excited I could almost scream!” she said, her voice elevated.

  “Yep. Almost!”

  Elbow.

  He laughed. “That elbow of yours is how we first met.”

  She put on a playful grimace. “Just had to bring that up, didn’t ya?”

  Tara stood up to peer over the two seats in front of them. Amy had her face pressed up against the window looking out. Jamie, on the other hand, had his precious gaming device in his hands, ear buds in place. She shook her head. You’d think…

  She sighed again, smiled, and sat back down.

  Stealing a glance across the aisle to see what her oldest was up to, Jenna lifted her head and looked Tara’s way. Their eyes met and Jenna lit up.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “I am so excited I could almost…”

  “Hey, watch it!” chided Tara with a playful smile.

  Jenna giggled and returned to looking out her own window.

  Tara sat back and looked at Brent. “I still can’t believe it.”

  Brent smiled. “I’m sure it’ll sink in eventually.”

  “Part of me hopes not. I love this feeling!”

  Brent winked, drew her close, and kissed the top of her head.

  Within 40 minutes they had arrived in the town of Tain where they were met by Angus MacKay, curator of the Tarbat Discovery Center in the small village of Portmahomack, their final destination.

  “A lot of attention has been drawn to our li’l village in the past few months,” offered Angus, his accent barely allowing the Lawtons full comprehension.

  All five of the Lawtons could tell that he was excited and proud.

  “The news of the decipherin’ of the Pictish language has brought journalists from newspapers and television, as well as archaeologists, anthropologists, and throngs of native Scots—hundreds of whom claim to be direct descendants of the Picts.” He smiled big. “Not to mention, there are tourists here from all over the world. It’s all quite the commotion.”

  “It sure sounds like it,” responded Brent.

  “You, my dear new friends, are a highly-anticipated arrival today.”

  “We are so honored and grateful to be here,” responded Tara, bursting with emotion. “I could hardly believe that you would cover the cost of our whole family traveling all the way to Scotland.”

  “Dearie, the money that has been brought into our community over the past couple of days alone has more than made up for any cost of travel that we’ve accorded yeh. Don’t yeh worry yer bonnie li’l head over it, hinny.”

  Tara turned to Brent who sat behind her in the van that would transport them the remaining ten miles to Portmahomack.

  “Hear that, honey? I’m a hinny!”

  Angus and Brent both laughed out loud.

  “Yes, you are, my bonnie wife. Now don’t ye be fallin’ in love with the locals and forgettin’ aboot yer wonderful husband.”

  “WHAT OF THE key?”

  Brent and Tara stood in the Tarbat Discovery Centre. It had once been the center of worship for a clan of Scots called Ross; the Tarbat Old Parish Church. What a perfect setting for what they were learning. What only the two of them were learning. Jenna and the kids had decided to explore the village. They were being acc
orded as much recognition as their parents for the recovery of so much of their history.

  My three little heroes, thought Tara with a smile.

  “Why would the key have been made in the first place?” asked Brent. “How could they have known that it would be needed?”

  “Ahh. Very astute question,” replied Angus appreciatively. “Our best guess is that King Uurad saw the writin’ on the wall and knew that it was just a matter of time before the Picts of the North had also succumbed to the influences of either the Scots or the Norse. In fact, it was known that the Scots had the goal of eliminating the Picti from the British Isles. It’s probable, based on the creation of the key, and the later breakin’ up and scatterin’ of the Pexa Stone—which yeh’ve been referrin’ to as the key stone—that the Picts intended to reclaim their heritage and culture if ever they were lost or stolen from them.

  “Think about the nation of Israel, God bless ‘em. The Hebrew language had become an extinct language, their culture was all but completely lost to them. But look at them today! They are a restored people and nation, and Hebrew is taught all around the world!

  “And if yeh think of the ancient Egyptians, they, too, did all that they could to permanently ensconce their traditions, beliefs, and lifestyles for future generations. The Picts apparently aimed to do the same with their upright slab stones placed throughout the land. But with the Scots and Norse eatin’ away at their strength, I personally believe that they created the key and stone out of fear, knowin’ that they would be a lost people forever without it. And, in retrospect, it turns out that they were right.

  “If the Key of Bridei and the Pexa Stone had never been found and brought together, these people would mostly have remained a society of myth and legend. But now …” Angus wiped away the formation of tears in his eyes. “Pardon me.” He cleared his throat of the well-up of emotion.

  Tara and Brent just stood and smiled at the man, appreciating the attachment to his ancient past.