“I’m ready,” I replied, my voice mild. “Kipp’s only glad to see you because he thinks you come bearing biscuits.”
Philo raised his eyebrows and glared at me. “Let’s go.”
During the drive to Duke Forest, Philo showed unusual restraint, driving almost carefully. At one point, a car passed us, the impatient driver honking his horn as he did so. He also gave Philo the standard middle finger salute known to all drivers.
“What did that mean?” Kipp asked.
“The driver was critiquing Philo’s driving style,” I replied.
“Oh, that’s nice,” Kipp replied as he started on his second egg and cheese biscuit.
Philo didn’t speak, neither did I, during the drive. The countryside was damp with moisture that had collected overnight to coat the grass covered low hills. Patches of light mist rose from the ground where the sun began to burn off the beads of iridescent dew. To my right, a gathering of gold finches took flight, their bright yellow color startling against the pale, cloudless sky. Sighing, I nestled down in the seat after squirming a minute to get comfortable, and sat with my head tilted so I could allow myself to be hypnotized by the passing tableau. I think at some point, I began to drift off, pulled by the seductive allure of my recent hibernation. Perhaps I’d not been allowed sufficient time to recover thanks to Philo and Fitzhugh who seemed to think they knew what was better for me than did I.
“Wake up!” Philo dug his finger into my back, prodding me without mercy.
Grumbling, I sat up straighter. We were at our destination, so I had to rouse myself. Philo stopped the car with a jerk that made my neck pop. The sun, by then, was bringing enough warmth that I tossed my jacket onto the car seat. Kipp had hopped out and was prancing playfully, bowing his body as if teasing Philo to catch him. Within a minute, we disappeared as the forest swallowed us into its maw.
Wildflowers in a dense forest are an unexpected example of tenacity. Despite the struggle for sunlight to find its way through vegetation and tree limbs to the forest floor, little flowers abounded, their bright color unexpected against the dull wash of browns and greens. Leaning down, I inspected one, wishing I knew the botanical name, but I’d always been lazy that way. You’d think after living over four hundred years that I would have applied myself to acquiring more actual knowledge versus just experiencing things.
“It’s like Thomas Andrews,” I remarked out of nowhere, expecting Philo to immediately follow my lopsided train of thought. “He spent his life focusing on ship building and was an expert.” Sighing, I spied another pale pink flower safely nestled like a precious gem amidst some early ferns. “I think I just bounce from place to place, learning just enough to get by but not enough to qualify as an expert on anything.” I wasn’t sure where that thought originated, but it defined part of my discontent.
Following my proclamation, we walked in silence for several minutes, before branching off of a well traveled trail to find a seldom used one that was partially grown over. Cars in the parking area indicated other patrons sharing the forest, but we had seen no one yet. The trail curved around the edge of a noisy stream which gurgled as the shallow water glided over a bed of polished rocks. Unexpectedly, Philo reached down and grabbed my hand; we continued, hand in hand, for a while.
Eventually we came upon a downed tree that invited us to sit and reflect. Kipp nosed around the floor of the woods until he found a comfortable place, padded with old leaves and free of sticks and rocks. After circling, he dropped down with a big grunt.
“How’s Claire?” I asked, feeling it was polite to make inquiries. After all, we’d been friends for years.
“During the short time you’ve been away, she flew out to California to visit Silas.” Philo was staring at a greening thicket across the stream. Overhead, there was a blur of bright blue as a jay, heading for home, cawed at us, seemingly irritated by our intrusion into his little world. “I’m not sure she’ll come back,” he added, his voice emotionless.
“I’m sorry.”
Kipp twisted his head and gazed at us. “I don’t understand how you can leave someone you love,” he said, his words audible to me only. “I’ll never leave you, Petra.”
“I know, Kipp.”
I’m not sure how long we sat like that before Philo seemed to shake himself out of his pensive mood. “So was it terrible?” He turned at looked at me. I saw, for the first time, new lines of worry on his face. And it seemed he’d acquired more gray hair overnight.
“I’m not convinced that being the leader of the Twelve is good for you,” I answered, ignoring his question. “That plus your stress with Claire is taking a toll.”
“Yes, I know I look old,” he replied, his mouth twisting with displeasure. “How about not avoiding my question to you…how was the trip, and Kipp, I’m asking you, too.”
Folding my hands in my lap, I waited for Kipp who, after nodding to me, decided to take the lead.
“Philo, it was fascinating, terrifying and tragic. It left me feeling, well, sad. I’ve never felt so pushed to intervene and do something to save so many lives but knew I couldn’t.” Kipp paused, and his tail began to wag, clearing a place in the leaves. “But the magic of meeting people we’d only read about in history was compelling. I’m almost ashamed to admit I’d go again.”
Philo smiled, the first I’d seen on his face for a while, it seemed. “You are a true traveler, Kipp, with the needed attitude.”
I watched a beetle, who seemed a rather early and intrepid explorer, make his way up a small mountain of leaves, only to have to carefully pick a safe path down the other side. He seemed determined to be about his business. Philo and Kipp were waiting, so I finally turned to Philo. “I wouldn’t go again, unlike Kipp, who must be tougher than I am.” Looking down I saw my hands were clenched into fists in my lap. Rolling my shoulders, I willed the knotted muscles to relax. “I can’t get their faces out of my head…and when I dream…”
Philo put a hand on my shoulder and began to knead out the tension. “I’ve never traveled, so I can’t imagine. But I admire you more than you know, Petra. You’re one tough cookie.”
“Maybe I don’t want to be tough…maybe I want to be soft and squishy,” I replied, trying to smile.
“Too late,” he replied.
“And I need to tell you–since you’re my boss–that we broke some rules while we were gone.”
“Such as?”
“Well, while we were in London, we went to find Harrow and did so, from a distance. He didn’t know we were there, observing him.”
“And how did that leave you feeling?”
“Sad, empty, yearning…I don’t know,” I said. “And I brought back a book given to me by Archibald Gracie.”
“Well, we will try and overlook your numerous faults,” he replied, laughing softly.
“How are things at work, since I’ll eventually have to return?” I asked, needing to change the subject.
“Oh, okay I think. Mark Elliott and Suzanne continue to be infatuated with one another.” He rolled his eyes. “Fitzhugh hopes that they will marry and go off somewhere else to live.”
“I thought he liked Mark. Or at least that’s what he’s said.”
“Oh, you know Fitzhugh. If he’s not in control, he’s not truly happy.” Philo sighed. “But I don’t want to lose Suzanne because she’s too valuable. I might look at reassigning Mark unless Fitzhugh can act reasonable.”
“I’ll talk with Fitzhugh,” I offered.
“Well, if you think that will help.”
“No, but I’ll talk with him.”
The End
Note From the Author:
This story is a work of fiction, but many of the characters were indeed passengers and crew on board the Titanic. Captain Smith and First Officer Murdock went down with the ship, as did the designer, Thomas Andrews. The bodies of those men were never recovered. Bruce Ismay, as noted in the story, took a place in a lifeboat and survived. He was regarded as cowardly and li
ved much of the remainder of his life as a recluse. His part in the tragedy has been endlessly debated over the years. Second Officer Lightoller and Colonel Gracie actually went down with the ship but with remarkable luck and tenacity managed to find an overturned lifeboat and were eventually rescued. John Jacob Astor and Benjamin Guggenheim, two of the wealthiest men in the world, died during the accident. Astor’s wife, Madeline, as well as Margaret Brown, the Countess of Rothes, and Helen Churchill Candee, were rescued and eventually resumed their previous lives. Margaret Brown and the Countess were highly regarded as heroines as they used their charisma and strength of will to motivate and direct their fellow passengers. Statistically, the greatest loss of life among the passengers was for men in second class.
The author, in writing about the loss of the Titanic, found the subject matter to be, well, titanic. She acknowledges the following sources for factual accounts of the tragic sinking in order to do honor to the people and their stories while crafting a tale of pure fiction:
Titanic: Those in Peril on the Sea, Steve Orlandella
The Sinking of the RMS Titanic, Charles River Editors
The Truth About the Titanic, Archibald Gracie
The Loss of the S.S. Titanic, Lawrence Beasley
The Night Lives On, Walter Lord
Gilded Lives, Fatal Voyage, Hugh Brewster
A Night to Remember, Walter Lord
Unsinkable, Daniel Allen Butler
The Last Log of the Titanic, David G. Brown
Inside the Titanic, Ken Marschall
Acknowledgments
The author would like to express her gratitude towards some of the people who have been instrumental in the creation of this book. As always, she values the ongoing advocacy of her husband who never complains to find her hunched over the keyboard, a cup of coffee in hand. She is fortunate to work with the publishing team at EPublishing Works! and appreciates the guidance of Brian Paules. The author has worked for several years with Nina Paules and, as always, enjoys her cover designs as well as her support. Amy and Bobbi, you know who you are. It helps, always, to have friends for encouragement. And last, a special thank you to Nicholas Colvert, who helped her see the forest for the trees and who has never met a symbiont that he didn’t like.
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A Conspiracy to Murder, 1865
A Symbiont Time Travel Adventures Series, Book Six
A trio of young women passed us, and my attention was drawn when I heard one refer to the middle girl as “Polly”, since, if the old news accounts were accurate, the attack would be made on a girl named Polly Adams. She stood out from her companions, with a shorter, slighter silhouette. Without being overly conspicuous, we made a subtle loop around some large, dense shrubs and began to follow at a distance. The road, which was a packed mixture of dirt and rock, led down a gentle incline before a sharp right turn curved behind a copse of trees that seemed darker than the night itself. The women disappeared from our view when they took that turn, the trees and underbrush concealing them. Not unexpectedly, we heard a series of high pitched screams and darted forward, Kipp just a little ahead of me, his natural speed a distinct advantage, as usual. The other two girls who’d been accompanying Polly almost knocked us down as they raced past, retreating in the direction from which they’d come. It was clear, in their terror, they had abandoned the girl to her fate. Then we saw Polly, who’d been accosted by the man we sought. He was tall, much taller than was she, dressed as before in black clothing, and he bent over her, using one hand to hold her while he used the other to tear at her blouse. Even though our purpose was observational and to gain knowledge—which prevented our intervention during an attack—Kipp was caught up in his outrage over the mistreatment of a lady and gave voice to his disapprobation with a loud, aggressive bark. The man glanced up, and recognition of us flooded his thoughts, as he stared through the darkness in our direction.
We huddled in the shadows as I peered through the gloaming to try and better see the man’s features, which were somewhat hidden under the brim of the hat that dipped deeply over his brow. I was convinced he wore a half mask on the top part of his face, leaving his mouth and chin uncovered. Spring-heeled Jack had been rumored to breathe blue fire, and I was waiting for such a display so that I could determine the mechanism, since it was clear this was a human man with no more powers than the rest of the species. As the man’s eyes from behind the mask met mine, he lifted his right hand up to his mouth, and a moment later, a flame of blue fire shot out, about a foot in length, only serving to terrify poor Polly even more, if possible, as she slumped in a swoon. I could have been wrong, but I got the distinct impression he was showing off his prowess just to impress me.
The man dropped her abruptly and roughly to the ground and began to run, with Kipp in hot pursuit, Kipp’s frenzied barking echoing against the emptiness of the park. There was a long, uninterrupted fence ahead, and the man took one amazing bound to clear the fence, as Kipp pulled up short with no route to follow. Dashing forward, I bent over the distraught Polly, who was babbling hysterically. As I helped her to her feet, she tried to pull together the remnants of her blouse, which had been shredded. The soft skin of her belly was scored and blood began to well along the cuts.
As others began to gather, drawn by the commotion, I quietly allowed myself to be absorbed by the crowd, and signaling Kipp, we faded into the darkness before a constable could arrive. I didn’t need an interview of one Petra Goodgame to be recorded in the annals of history.
“He has a gas cylinder hidden beneath his sleeve, attached to his forearm.” In my mind, I formed a diagram so Kipp could follow my thoughts. Yes, being a telepath has certain advantages. “Then, he uses a fire starter with a flint to get a spark and, whoosh, he creates the blue flame that we just saw.” I felt satisfied I’d figured out the mechanics of one part of the theatre. Now we were left with the why behind it all.
A CONSPIRACY TO MURDER, 1865
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Also by T.L.B. Wood
The Symbiont Time Travel Adventures Series
The Symbiont
Tombstone, 1881
Whitechapel, 1888
The Great Locomotive Chase, 1862
Titanic, 1912
A Conspiracy to Murder, 1865
About the Author
T.L.B. Wood began her love of literature at an early age, encouraged by her mother who was an English teacher. She and her husband share a love of nature and animals, and more than one rescued dog or cat has found a forever home with the Wood family.
T.L.B. is an author in many genres: the inspirational romance In the Eye of Hugo, a paranormal history The Way of Telitha, the science fiction novels The Last Child of Tole and The Ambassador from Tole, and the epic fantasy The Eagles of Arundell.
She is best known for her young adult Symbiont Time Travel Adventure Series, which includes the books The Symbiont, Tombstone, 1881, Whitechapel, 1888, The Great Locomotive Chase, 1862, Titanic, 1912. and the forthcoming A Conspiracy To Murder, 1865.
In that series, time travelers with an eye for detail and a nose for trouble travel from the present era to investigate history’s great mysteries. Humans think Petra is one of their own, a young woman accompanied by Kipp, her seemingly canine companion. But the
reality is that Kipp and Petra are a bonded pair of telepaths in search of adventure.
T.L.B. has been described by reviewers as writing characters that “feel like old friends” with her “intelligent writing and research,” and “improves with every book she writes.”
Join the adventure!
Titanic, 1912 (The Symbiont Time Travel Adventures Series, Book 5): Young Adult Time Travel Adventure Page 31