Song for a Lost Kingdom, Book I

by Steve Moretti

  He left the room and she scrunched her head into her chest, wetness running down her cheek, wanting nothing more than to completely disappear from the world.

  TARA ALWAYS LOOKED forward to the annual conference of the Association of Canadian Museum and Gallery Curators. The late October conference moved across Canada, and each year’s social evening reflected the unique culture of the area.

  She had enjoyed a down-home lobster dinner and Fifties-style ‘hop’ in Charlottetown, PEI; a hay ride, barbecue and square dancing lessons in Canmore, Alberta. But her favourite social was Québec City. After an authentic French-Canadian baked beans and tourtière dinner she had danced like a fool to the spirited music of a local fiddler well into the night with a group of tipsy curators from the across the country.

  As her five hour flight from Ottawa to Vancouver reached its cruising altitude, she wondered what this year would be like. The venue was promising - the Whistler resort two hours north of the city by way of the Sea-to-Sky Highway that hugged the Pacific on its way up the Rockies.

  Tara was more interested however, in the file that Pablo had given her before she left. He had gathered all the documents, receipts, expenses, press clippings and miscellaneous paperwork for the Art of Rebellion exhibit, which continued to draw a steady stream of patrons and critical acclaim.

  She had been distracted from doing much investigation while preparing for her featured seminar at this year’s conference. Her boss, André, had recommended her after seeing her present to Ottawa-area curators. She was flattered. Now she had to live up to her billing as a young, smart curator with fresh ideas on attracting new visitors to help struggling galleries balance their strained budgets.

  As soon as this presentation was over, she was determined to comb through the file Pablo had prepared for her and see if there were any clues that might help confirm or lay to rest, the accusations that Friedrich Lang had hinted at on the opening night of the exhibit.

  Was there a chance that the real Duncan Cello was not what they were so proudly displaying at the National Gallery? If so, how was that even possible and who would have switched it?

  As she adjusted her seat and pulled out her laptop to go through the slides for her presentation, a face flashed before her.

  Adeena.

  Tara had a sense that somehow she was involved, and if so, the consequences might be more than their friendship could handle. She hoped she was wrong and that poor, suffering Adeena could just get on with it, become the classical musician she had always dreamed of being, and settle down with Philippe.

  As her laptop fired up, she let herself enjoy a little smile. Philippe. The one thing Adeena had got right. He would be her rock, with his own impeccable sense of style and adventure.

  If only Tara had found him first.

  BEING ALONE AT the lake with her parents, Adeena felt almost like being a kid again.

  Her father had arrived from Scotland a few days ago, and now here they were all together up at the place that was tailor-made for unplugging from the world. She had been so happy to see her father. He had so many things he wanted to talk to her about, and some time alone up at Wolfe Lake was the ideal place to talk.

  She had actually spent Thanksgiving in the hospital, after her blood pressure had dropped dangerously low, and they decided to keep her under observation for a few more days. Philippe had visited as much as he could until he had to leave on a special assignment to Washington D.C.

  Before he left they struck a truce.

  Adeena stopped talking about travelling back in time. Philippe focused on her health - her blood pressure and diet in particular. They let the real issues lie, unspoken. She wanted to tell him what Dr. Lochiel had told her about the MRI scan, but she couldn’t do it, at least not now. Before she said anything about her fertility, or lack thereof, she wanted to discuss options with her gynaecologist. She better have all the facts and options before she got into that topic with him.

  Before they parted, Philippe tried to reconnect.

  “Babe,” he started. “I am sorry I gave you a hard time. You must have hated me for not believing you.”

  Adeena listened, unsure how she really felt. “I was disappointed. But you did come back for me. Thank you.”

  “I had to, Adeena,” he said. “What kind of husband would I make if I left my wife when she needed me most?”

  She watched him without saying anything. He was a good man. He deserved a good wife. “Philippe, you haven’t done anything wrong. You’ve been there for me. You even saved me from Tara! I should be the one apologizing.”

  He smiled. “Yeah, you put on a pretty good show for her. I didn’t know you were such an actress!”

  “I’m a performer. That is what I do!”

  He took her hands in his and looked at her seriously. He said nothing for a few moments and they studied each other’s face. Finally he spoke, slowly. “And are you still performing? With me?”

  Adeena raised her eyebrows. “Performing? What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “But something’s changed. It feels like, like there is a wall between us, a barrier or something. It’s separating you from me and I can’t seem to break through it.”

  Adeena closed her eyes. He wasn’t just a good reporter, he knew how to read her. “I don’t know. Maybe I just need some time.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Come here.” He took her in his arms. “I’m here for you. When you’re ready to be with me again, I’ll be waiting for you.”

  WILLIAM WAS GLAD to be home again, finally. Each day in Scotland had been an emotional adventure.

  The spirit of Margaret Rose lived deep within him, even though mother and son were worlds apart. He thought of all the people he had met including Fay, his mother’s nurse. She had been there until the end, providing his mother with more than just professional nursing. The two were a treat to watch in action, and after his mother died, Fay tearily confessed that she felt ‘a hole in mah heart wider than th’ sea itself.’

  Besides Fay, there was Murdo, the young sheep farmer who lived next door to his mother’s cottage on the North Sea. He had understood Margaret Rose and shown real affection for her. He too was moved to tears after she died. He told William, that his own grandmother had passed away when he was ‘just a wee brat’ and he never got a chance to know her.

  Murdo said Margaret Rose was like the grandmother he had always imagined. William later discovered that Murdo used to take her shopping, kept her freezer stocked and used to drop by for a dram of Brandy from time to time, loaded with produce, sweets and fresh-cut flowers.

  Now that his mother was gone, William could move forward.

  He thought back to how his mother had always connected with Adeena, and about Margaret Rose’s dying wish – for Adeena ‘to save us.’ Grandmother and granddaughter developed a bond that he had admired, even if it did scare him. Now back home, he had lots of things to talk to his daughter about. While he had fretted over Adeena as a child, his own strained relationship with his mother had occupied too much negative space in his head. Now finally, he could focus.

  “Will, are you going to daydream all day? Is that thing going to work?”

  He looked up from the tangle of wires before him at Jackie in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on dinner. He was determined to get the satellite feed hooked up to their new flat screen TV. “Yeah, just about done,” he called out. He hooked up the last connection and flicked on the power switch.

  Four different lights started blinking, all red and he was worried until finally, one started to glow a deep blue and then the other three followed suit, blinking happily to indicate the connection was working.

  “I think I got it,” William called out. He moved around to the front, clicked on the remote and waited a few seconds until the screen lit up with a signal from the satellite. “There you go. Now we can watch the news and all your cooking shows!”

  Jackie smiled from the kitchen. “Good work, Will. N
ow come and pour me some wine, tout de suite!”

  He threw the leftover wires and the manual in the box from the satellite converter and put them in the spare room. The door to Adeena’s bedroom was open. There was a large cello case next to her.

  “Adeena, you want some wine?” he called out. “Come and show us your new cello and I’ll pour you a glass.”

  20

  ADEENA’S DAD WATCHED in awe as she unpacked the Duncan Cello in the great room of the cottage. “I’ve been waiting to see what all the fuss is about,” he said.

  She held it upright so he could take a closer look.

  “Ohhh, nice” he sighed. “Pure perfection.”

  Her mother in the kitchen didn’t seem impressed. “What’s so special about it?”

  Adeena looked at her father and smiled. He shrugged. This was one of those things you either felt instinctively or you would never understand. Father and daughter chuckled.

  “It’s the oldest surviving cello in the UK,” William called out. “Almost three-hundred-years-old, and the guy who created it apprenticed with Antonio Stradivari.”

  “Oh well,” Jackie mused. “Bravo! An Italian designer. What’s he like Gucci or Armani or something?”

  Adeena laughed. “Mom, he didn’t make shoes. Or purses!” She noticed her father studying the cello closely.

  “I thought this was supposed to be on display at the gallery?” he asked without taking his eyes off the instrument. “Didn’t the exhibition open already? How’d you get it?”

  Her mother looked over at her, smile gone. Adeena knew this was going to come up. “It needs to be played. I’m the only employee at the gallery who is an actual cellist.”

  Her mother didn’t seem convinced. “What’s Tara say about this?”

  “She’s okay. We got a copy made for the exhibit, so this one can be played.”

  William choked. “A copy?”

  Adeena needed him on her side. “It’s done all the time. We got Thomas Peeter down in Gatineau to make it. He’s copied some of the most valuable cellos and violins in the world, down to the tiniest detail, perfect replicas.”

  “Yeah, but they’re fakes! It’s not the same, not even close.”

  Adeena took the Duncan Cello and held it upright. Maybe it was time to tell them more. “There is something else, and I need you both to believe me.” She could feel her pulse racing, but needed to get this out. “This is actually my cello.”

  Her mother, who had been peeling a carrot, put it down and wiped her hands with a towel. She walked over near to where Adeena stood holding the cello upright. “What are you saying, belle?”

  Her father stared at her. They were making her uncomfortable and suddenly the room seemed warm. “Can you both sit down for a second? And just listen, okay?”

  William sat on the edge of the leather sofa in front of the wall of windows looking out over the lake. He seemed worried. Her mother remained standing, arms on hips. “It’s okay, tell us.”

  Adeena closed her eyes and saw James and George. “This cello belonged to Katharine Carnegie in 1745.”

  Her father stared intently at her. “It did? How do you know?”

  “Her brother told me on the way to Drummond Castle.” She waited for their reaction. They looked confused.

  “I know you’re going to have me sent back to the hospital when I tell you this, but no one else believes me. Philippe certainly doesn’t.” She felt her eyes watering, but blinked the tears away, determined to finish. “Mom, Dad,” she took a deep breath, finally saying out loud what she had never spoken before:

  “I think Katharine and I are the same person.” Adeena couldn’t hold back the tears now and started to sob, barely able to continue. “I don’t know how it can be, but somehow she’s inside me.”

  Her father stood up and took the Duncan Cello from her. Her mother stepped forward and swept Adeena into her arms.

  “It’s okay ma belle. It’s okay. We’re here for you.”

  She had finally said it.

  It was one thing to think that she and Katharine were the same person. It was quite another to say it out loud it to someone else, least of all your own parents.

  Do they believe me? She pulled away from her mother, searching her face for clues. Adeena couldn’t tell, but she could see the concern in her eyes.

  Her father wore the same worried expression. “Pumpkin,” he began. “This must be killing you, going through this.” He hesitated, and she got the sense he was selecting each word carefully. “Your grandmother used to tell me things I couldn’t believe. But, lately, I’m just not sure about anything anymore.”

  It was his turn to give her a hug. “Dad, somehow Katharine and I share a soul or whatever you might call it,” Adeena said quietly. “And I found a way to go back and help her.”

  Her dad nodded his head and held on to her tightly. She felt herself fighting tears. “I don’t really know where she begins,” she sobbed, “and I end.”

  ADEENA LAY IN her bed staring at the ceiling.

  She had told her parents everything that happened when she played the Duncan Cello and became Katharine Carnegie. She didn’t go into great detail about James Drummond, only that Katharine and James were a couple.

  Her dad asked lots of questions, and while he wouldn’t confirm he believed that she travelled back in time, he reviewed everything she told them in great detail. He probed, asked all the right questions. What he was really thinking was hard to say. He seemed to be playing the role of professor reviewing a student presentation. But maybe he really wanted to believe her.

  She had mentioned her grandmother a few times, and it made him wince each time. Was he worried his daughter was becoming just like his mother? The mother that had caused him pain as a child and so much worry as an adult?

  Adeena wondered what her mother was thinking. While her dad asked lots of questions and genuinely seemed like he was trying to help her by sifting through historical facts, her mother had stood in stone silence.

  Wasn’t her job as a psychiatrist to ask questions? Adeena knew about the research she had completed for her Ph.D. studying autistic children with clairvoyant-like abilities. Was she trying to develop a theory for this, her own daughter’s fucked-up psychosis?

  What a family! Dad, the historian with a crazy mother. Mom, the psychiatrist who works with crazy people.

  And me? The crazy person.

  She smiled, finding some humour in this profile of her nuclear family. The door to her room was slightly ajar, and she could hear her parents still talking about her. They were trying to be quiet, as they discussed the situation in front of a crackling fire.

  “You think Tara knows she’s got that cello?” her mother asked.

  There was a long silence, punctuated by the popping of burning logs in the fireplace. Her father must be thinking about that one. Adeena could see him in her mind, not wanting to believe his daughter was a criminal. “I don’t know. I’m really not sure,” he finally responded.

  “If she’s taken it without permission she could be arrested!” her mother said. “God, why can’t this ever end?”

  Adeena knew they were referring to her teenage years.

  “No,” her father replied. “This is different. I don’t think she’s taking drugs, and that Kurt asshole isn’t pushing her this time.” There was another long pause. “Maybe this is the Stuart curse all over again, like Mum.”

  “Oh God!” her mother gasped. “I hope not. It haunted her until the very end.”

  Adeena thought about her grandmother. ‘Haunted’ was the right word. She now understood her better than anyone else ever could. Somehow, Katharine had been in her grandmother’s dreams too. The difference was that Adeena was living the dream as Katharine.

  Her parents still blamed Kurt for that awful night of the prom.

  She went alone, because the day before she had caught him in bed with Brandy, the new girl that had just joined the band. ‘Asshole’ was right. Adeena and Kurt were no
t just lovers, they were also a song-writing team. But apparently fucking Brandy was more important than creating music with Adeena.

  Adeena had gone to Kurt’s house to ask about changing the ending for a song they were working on. She found him on the couch naked between Brandy’s legs, fornicating with abandon.

  Adeena grabbed his prized Gibson electric guitar. They had used it to write and perform some amazing songs together. Collaborations that fused their creativity and she had thought – their love.

  She held the guitar high above her head, brandishing it like a Neanderthal threatening a grizzly bear.

  “What’d you doing?” Kurt yelled. “You fucking crazy?”

  Adeena swung the heavy guitar in a circle over her head. “Maybe I am, fuck hole!”

  The naked Brandy slut screamed as Adeena smashed the guitar to the floor, and then swung it around and around smashing a lamp. “Stop!” Kurt yelled.

  Adeena was wild with rage. She took the guitar, turned and heaved it against the picture window behind her. The glass shattered dramatically.

  “Fuck you! Asshole!” She yelled as she stormed out, leaving behind the boy she had given her heart to for the last three years. And more importantly, the music they had created together. It had elevated their relationship to another level entirely – in her mind, at least.

  Adeena rolled over in bed reliving it all. The very next night she went to the prom, alone. She was still in a daze, drinking and stumbling through the evening. She saw Kurt on the dance floor, with ‘the slut.’ Someone offered her a blue ‘happy-shit’ tab. She didn’t hesitate and dissolved it on her tongue.

  It wasn’t just simple jealously that drove her. She wanted to blot out the dreams they had created together, the music she and Kurt had worked almost demonically to compose, to perfect and to triumphantly perform.

  Why couldn’t she be like other kids? Kids who were happy just enjoying music instead of taking the express train to hell trying to create it?