Song for a Lost Kingdom, Book I

by Steve Moretti

  “I love it,” Jackie replied. “You can almost hear the humming birds humming.” A loon called out and she smiled. “See? They agree!”

  William nodded his head taking the cooler from the trunk and following his wife into the cottage. As they opened the door they called out. “Adeena! We’re home.”

  There was no response. Jackie sat her basket down on the kitchen counter. “Belle?”

  No reply.

  William was puzzled. “Adeena?” He looked at Jackie. “Maybe she went for a walk?” He noticed the frown on his wife’s face. She hurried toward Adeena’s room. The door was slightly ajar.

  “Adeena?”

  William was right behind her. He saw his daughter sitting on a stool in her bedroom. She seemed to be asleep, but still held her cello, her eyes were closed. Her head hung limp on her chest.

  “Help me!” Jackie said. Together they raised Adeena from the chair and laid her on the bed.

  “Adeena?” Jackie whispered, as she took her pulse. “Talk to me, Belle.” Jackie took her other hand and laid it gently on Adeena’s forehead. “I think she’s asleep, but . . .”

  “But what?” His wife seemed lost in thought. William looked at Adeena and wondered again about her claim that she became another woman when she played the Duncan Cello. He glanced at the cello sitting in the corner where he had placed it. Katharine Carnegie? What connection was this woman to him? Why did she seem to possess such power over both his mother and his daughter?

  “Something is very wrong,” Jackie said, looking at him without releasing her hands from Adeena. “This is not just tired.”

  “What do we do?” William asked. “Is she’s okay?”

  “I’m not sure. Let me try Dr. Lochiel at the Civic. See what he thinks,” she replied. “I’ll call the hospital. Stay with her.”

  William sat on the edge of his bed as Jackie got up and left the room. He watched Adeena. Sleeping, or … or what? There were many things he could not understand in this world. His mother had been at the top of that list.

  But she was now officially replaced.

  TARA OPENED THE door to Adeena’s empty office and felt like she was doing something wrong.

  That didn’t really make sense. She was the manager after all, and Adeena a member of her staff. But none of her other staff gave her attitude or created intrigue quite like Dee. Most were content to have a position at the National Gallery, and thankful that Tara was fair and seemed to get her expanding budget approved each year.

  But then Adeena had never wanted to work for Tara. It was a way to pay the rent while she pursued her dreams. Tara sighed. Dreams. I wish I had time to live my dreams. Hell, I wish I had time to even have a dream.

  She shook her head. Don’t get distracted.

  Tara did not get sidetracked easily. A television crew from the BBC was coming to interview her tomorrow about the exhibit and the Duncan Cello. If Friedrich Lang knew some secret that she hadn’t found and word got out that the Gallery was displaying a fake, there would be hell to pay.

  That was putting it mildly. Careers would be ruined, starting with her own, and likely her boss. What was the penalty for losing a five-million-dollar-artifact?

  Tara had a nose for problem solving, and it had led her to Dee’s office. If something was amiss, she would find it. The banker’s box beside Adeena’s desk was a likely source of information. That receipt from the luthier still puzzled Tara.

  Five thousand bucks to rent some instruments?

  Tara rummaged through the box, looking for the receipt. It wasn’t there. There were some sketches of the Duncan Cello, and printouts of online research including Wikipedia articles on Scottish dress, customs and figures from the past. She picked up a colour print out with a picture of an odd-looking character all wrapped up in flowing red plaid robes: ‘James Drummond, 3rd Duke of Perth, 1713-1746.’ His eyes seemed fixed on Tara with an innocent boyish smirk.

  Cute, she thought. She went through all the papers in the box. Lots of references and photos of the Duncan Cello, some scraps of music notation that seemed to be handwritten, a stack of index cards on each of the artifacts in the exhibit, but the receipt she sought was not among them.

  Had Adeena seemed a little flustered about the whole thing? Tara recalled their conversation. Dee said the luthier had things that ‘he could adapt to be historically accurate.’ She really needed to find that receipt. If it wasn’t in the box with the other papers, maybe in Adeena’s desk? Tara opened the middle drawer and saw a bewildering assortment of entangled items.

  “God! What a mess!” she said out loud, shaking her head.

  Artists. They might make us laugh and cry, but they’ll never run the world, Tara thought. She took out all the junk from the top drawer of Adeena’s desk. Cards, papers, two packages of sunflower seed wrappers and a few granola bars, along with a half dozen or so tea bags, earbud headphones and empty foil packages of Starbucks instant latte mixes. Jeez! How does anyone work like this?

  Tara closed the drawer and wondered if she had been duped. And then she noticed it – a book on the Jacobite uprising in Scotland. Sitting on top of the bookcase, like it had been hurriedly shoved there. There was a piece of paper sticking out from it. Tara opened the book and pulled out the missing receipt.

  Nice filing system, Dee. Or, was she trying to hide something? Tara couldn’t be sure if it was just part of her friend’s sloppy manner or something more devious. She scanned the receipt. ‘Thomas Peeters, Luthier.’ The description read: ‘Creation of musical prop. $5,000.’

  ‘Prop?’ A single prop? Tara wondered. She thought they were renting a few instruments. This sounded like the vendor had created just one instrument. She looked at the receipt again scanning for the phone number and dialled it from the phone on Adeena’s desk. She got a recorded message:

  “Hello. You’ve reached Thomas Peeters. I’m currently out of the country until December 15th. Please leave me a message or visit my website for more information.”

  Tara put the phone down and studied the receipt. It was time she and Adeena had a talk.

  ADEENA COULD HEAR the driving rain. She was lying down, her eyes closed unaware of where or when she was.

  Or who she was.

  Am I Katharine? She let out a deep sigh and felt a jabbing pain, excruciating pressure pushing deep into her skull. Her sigh turned into a cry of agony.

  “Adeena?”

  The voice was low and deep. It came from someone very close by. She tried to lift the heavy wall that kept eyelids sealed shut. She was able to crack them open slightly and saw the blurry outline of someone sitting next to her bed.

  “Can you hear me, babe?” It was Philippe, talking softly.

  “Ohhhh,” she murmured. The torture chamber inside her head pounded. Every cell in her brain felt like it was being attacked. “Oh, my God. Fuccck!”

  Someone else came into the room in and she felt a gentle hand on her forehead. “Belle? You’ve been out for hours. Can you open your eyes?”

  Adeena fought through the pain, trying to open her eyes enough to see her mother. “It hurts so bad. Ohhhhh…”

  “It’s okay, belle. We’re here. I’ll get you something for your head. Don’t try to move yet.”

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Adeena managed to sit-up in bed. The pills her mother gave her had helped a bit. Apparently Philippe had been in her room watching her for the last few hours.

  “It’s killing you,” he said staring at the Duncan Cello, in the corner of her room. “Your mom and dad are worried.” Philippe put both hands over hers. “So am I.”

  Adeena had so much she wanted to say to him. So many things that she needed to sort out. But she was still feeling groggy. “Philippe, I’m sorry. I didn’t want . . .” She was unable to finish her thought.

  He moved closer to her on the bed. “Shhhh. It’s okay,” She sank back down on the bed and closed her eyes. “Just rest. Turn over and I’ll rub your back.”

  She did as he suggested and ro
lled over. She felt Phillipe’s hands on her back as he began to massage, slowly working his way up to her neck and lightly working his fingers over her head. Then he returned to her back releasing some of the tension she felt.

  She was growing tired again, and fighting to stay awake. The soothing massage continued until finally she fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

  ADEENA SAW PHILIPPE and James running toward her. She was running too - in the wooded area behind the cottage, up the steep hills, higher and higher. They were getting closer to her until finally she looked back and both were gone.

  She opened her eyes with a start.

  The light through her window was grey but bright enough to confirm to her it was a new day. Adeena sat up in bed stiffly. The smoky aroma of frying bacon drifted toward her. Her feet touched the coolness of the wooden floor and she stood up, for the first time in the last twenty-four hours. She heard the television.

  “Hey,” her father said as she ventured out of her room. “How you feeling?” He wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her in an extended hug.

  “Better.” She lingered in the comfort of his embrace as her mother approached.

  “Ma belle.”

  Adeena let go of her father. Her mother quickly took his place. “You had us so worried.”

  “I’m fine now. Really. Thank you, both of you.”

  Her mother smiled. “Come, have some breakfast. You must be starved - you’ve been out for nearly a whole day.”

  Had it been that long?

  The last twenty-four hours seemed like one long dream, past and present colliding in pain. She sat on a stool by the island in the kitchen. Her mother placed a mug of steaming coffee before her and poured in a little half-and-half cream. Adeena took a sip and relished the tiny surges of caffeine bliss.

  Her phone vibrated on the counter where it was being charged. The familiar alert tone indicated a new message. She put down her coffee after another long sip and went to check.

  Hope you’re okay. Had to go for a TV interview.

  Adeena stared at the phone. “Philippe was here, right? When did he leave?”

  Her mother turned from where she stood at the stove. “Yes, most of yesterday and he was still here last night when we went to bed. He said he had to work today and would be leaving before we were up.”

  Her father, setting the table with dishes for breakfast, nodded without looking up. “He’s supposed to be part of a live panel on the news channel, but I haven’t seen him yet.”

  Adeena glanced at the television. There were a few talking heads, with the Parliament buildings in the background, but Philippe wasn’t one of them. Her father finished up at the table and went back to his spot on the overstuffed chaise near the fireplace. He picked up a book with a peculiar old-fashioned journal cover and settled into his seat.

  “What’re you reading dad?”

  He looked up blankly. “What?”

  “That book. Strange cover…”

  “It’s a journal your grandmother, uh, picked up for me in Scotland when we . . . went to Kinnaird Castle,” he said, his words trailing off.

  “Kinnaird, are you sure? Can I see that?”

  Before he had a chance to reply, Adeena strode towards him. He held the book tightly.

  “Can I see it dad, please?” she asked.

  He handed the book to her. She read the cover out loud: “Sixth Earl of Southesk?”

  “It’s his journal,” her dad said. He looked at her nervously.

  “His? Who?”

  “Sir Carnegie,” her father explained in a halting voice, “he was an MP and a Captain for the English during the Jacobite rebellion in 1745.”

  “Holy shit!” Adeena began to read a passage from the journal, transfixed. Her mouth hung open as she absorbed the words. Her father reached for the leather bound book.

  “Adeena, no. . .” He tried to pull it back from her, but she held on tightly.

  “I need to read this!”

  Before he could protest, there was a loud banging at the back door.

  IT HAD BEEN a while since Tara had been up to Wolfe Lake.

  She and Adeena had often ventured up on their own, sometimes with, but usually without, male companionship. In fact, she thought, the weekends with just the two of them had been the best. Watching old movies, eating junk food, swimming and canoeing, inventing every insane martini combination they could dream up. They’d had some good memories up here - a long time ago.

  All that was about to be lost today when Tara retrieved the Duncan Cello from Adeena Stuart. How could Adeena simply steal a priceless artifact from the gallery and think everything would be fine between them?

  Tara banged again on the door sharply. She felt the biting cold on her cheeks as she waited at the door.

  Mrs. Stuart appeared with her usual understated elegance.

  “Tara, it’s been so long! C’mon in,” she said opening the door, wrapping her arms around Tara. Mrs. Stuart had always treated her like a daughter and that was going to make this even tougher.

  “Hi Mrs. Stuart,” she responded, taking note of how manicured she looked, even at eight-thirty in the morning. How does she do it? Tara had always wanted to be like Adeena’s mom. She somehow managed to juggle a professional career and a family, while seeming to spend all her time shopping and dressing like a modern Grace Kelly.

  Let it go Tara. You’re here on business. Bad business. “Is Adeena here? I need to speak with her.”

  “Yes, she’s having coffee with…” Mrs. Stuart hesitated as they entered the kitchen from the front entrance. “She was here. Adeena?” she called out toward the bedroom. “Tara’s here.”

  A muffled response came from the bedroom. “Just a sec.”

  “Tara, have a seat. Would you like a coffee or, wait, you like tea right? Darjeeling?” Mrs. Stuart offered, opening a cupboard and checking her selection of canisters. “I’m sure we’ve got some here.”

  “No, it’s okay, Mrs. Stuart, but thank-you.” Why couldn’t she just be a bitch like her daughter? It would make this a lot easier.

  “Hey Tar, what’s the occasion?”

  Tara looked over her shoulder as Adeena appeared from the bedroom, in jeans and a checkered flannel shirt. “I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

  Tara was still dressed in her wool coat as she stood in the kitchen. Adeena looked at her without saying a word. “Okay. Why don’t we go outside for a walk?”

  THE CRUEL WINDS of November in Eastern Ontario could arrive at any time. Overnight they returned with a ferocious bite. The lake greeted them angrily with white caps forming over the dark waters.

  Adeena was glad she had grabbed her wool toque and her lined jacket before she stepped out. As they walked across the yard, towards the menacing blackness of Wolfe Lake, she knew the moment of truth was here.

  “Dee, how could you?” Tara said after they had gotten away from the cottage.

  “Could I what?”

  “Steal a five-million-dollar cello!”

  Adeena stopped walking. The wind, so insistent up until now, was suddenly still. Flakes of snow started to fall.

  Tara pulled the collar of her coat higher, trying to cover her ears. “I know you had Thomas Peeters make a copy of it so you could try and fool me!”

  “I never meant to get you in trouble.”

  “Really? My God! Are you for real? You think you can just go around playing stupid games and leaving me to clean up your mess as usual?” Tara was exasperated. “You’ve gone too far this time. I can’t save you.” She paused, her tone turning icy. “I’m not even sure I want to.”

  Adeena absorbed the words and felt even colder. Snowflakes were starting to collect on both of them. “I wish you would let me explain.”

  “Explain? Explain? Are you totally fucking crazy?” Tara rarely swore. It took something bordering on life-changing for her to use the “f” word. “Where is it, Adeena? Where’s the real Duncan Cello?”

  The two women stood star
ing at each other. Their steaming breaths visually documenting their exchange. Snow filled the air.

  Adeena knew she had lost. What had she been thinking? How in the fuck did she think this was going to end? She would have to hand over the Duncan to Tara. And likely go to jail.

  “I…, I…. don’t know what to say, Tar. That cello belonged to Katharine Carnegie, who I think is… well maybe a distant relation. It’s so much more than just a museum artifact. I am not sure I can explain just how important it is…” Adeena paused hoping that somehow she could draw Tara into her reality. “…to me.”

  “So you do have it? You stole it then?”

  This would never work.

  Tara would never understand and she would never care. How could she? She lived in the normal world, where people went about their lives, building careers, focusing on the here and now. They didn’t struggle to tie together the threads of time. They didn’t find themselves drifting between two souls separated by centuries.

  “Can I try to explain? You’ve always been there for me and you’ve always helped me find my way back.” Adeena hung her head before her best friend and waited for a response. The world was turning white, the sharp edges of rocks and trees blending into soft uniformity.

  Tara stood before her. She said nothing. It was a standoff. If Adeena had hoped that she would somehow get a sympathetic hearing, there was no indication coming from the other side. Might as well face it. It’s over now and time to face the music.

  Literally.

  “Okay,” Adeena finally replied, keeping her head hung low. “I… I…”

  The high-pitched ring of a cell phone interrupted them. Both women touched their coat pockets. Another ring and Tara found her phone and pulled it out.

  “Hello?” she said in an annoyed tone, holding the phone tightly against her ear. Adeena looked up. Tara stared back with daggers in her eyes.

  “What is it Pablo?” Tara barked. Her expression morphed into confusion as she listened. “What do you mean? I don’t get it.” Tara’s eyes were darting back and forth. Her brows were raised. “The Duncan Cello is sitting in my office?”