Mystic Memories

by Gillian Doyle

  “This old ship has a way of doing that to some people,” he said casually. “Do you want to come up on deck for some air?”

  “S-sure,” she said, her voice still shaky.

  Leading her out of the cabin, he addressed the small gathering of adults in the manner of his role as the captain. “Sorry he is, mates. Just a bad dream is all. Didn’t mean t’wake any of you.”

  She followed him up the companionway to the main deck. The lights of Dana Point twinkled from buildings and boats around the harbor. She turned and stared at the cliffs, remembering the arduous climb to the top with Blake. Her heart lurched. Catching the sob before it broke loose, she reached for the rail and held on tight as if it were her only link to the past to the man she loved.

  Next to her, the captain maintained character, talking like an old salt to the children standing watch in the chill night as if they were McGinty or Jimmy or Mr. Bellows.

  “Feeling any better, Mr. Edwards?” asked the captain, referring to her male persona.

  “Not really, sir.” In spite of her confusion regarding the whereabouts of Blake and Andrew, Cara couldn’t blow her cover to the captain, who was unaware of her true reason for being on board. She knew in her gut that Blake and Andrew were not on the ship. What her instincts didn’t tell her was where they were now. “It’s not the dream that’s bothering me. I believe I may be coming down with the flu.”

  The captain nodded compassionately. “I’ll take you ashore.”

  “Can you spare me?”

  “Yes. Now, gather your gear together while I alert Doc and the first mate that we’ll be leaving.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said. His words brought back more memories as she went below to retrieve her sleeping bag.

  By saying the doctor, or Doc, he had meant the cook, which was the typical handle on board most ships. Except on the Valiant. Keoni was, and always would be, Keoni or Kanaka. Some of the crew called him Doctor, but she had never heard Blake call him anything else, unless it was kaikuaʽana, big brother.

  Ah, damn . . . Her eyes flooded with tears for Keoni and Bud. And for Andrew. But especially for Blake.

  Swiping at her wet cheeks, she considered going back into the portal again. But she knew Andrew would not have gone back without someone coaxing him as she had done. Her primary purpose all along had been to locate the boy and bring him back to his parents. Now she’d lost him. Her next step was to find out what happened to him.

  Cara tied her sleeping bag into a loose bundle, giving it a larger shape to appear as though her missing bag might be wrapped inside. After a final glance at the mysterious bulkhead, she turned her back and left the cabin.

  It was one o’clock in the morning when Cara thanked the captain and walked toward her locked car. Without her backpack, which she’d lost in the southeaster off San Pedro, she had no money, no driver’s license, and no car keys. If the alarm hadn’t been set, she might have found a way to jimmy the lock and drive home. Instead, she found a pay phone near the parking lot of the marina.

  She listened to the computerized voice operator. “Will you accept a collect call from . . . Cara Edwards?”

  “Yes,” answered Gabriella, with surprising alertness for the middle of the night. It was as though she had been waiting for the phone to ring.

  Cara clenched the receiver. “Aunt Gaby?”

  “I’m here, Cara.”

  The familiar words sounded so wonderful to her ears that she chuckled despite her misery. “Why is it you were there for me in the past, but now I have to call collect?”

  “That was your choice, dear. And this is my nickel, so tell me what you need.”

  I need Blake!

  Instead, she answered, “Car keys. I probably should have called Lucy to bring my spare set from the house but—”

  “Yes, call your sister. I don’t drive the freeways like I used to, especially alone at night.”

  No, you just flit throughout the centuries.

  Her great-aunt chuckled as if she had heard Cara’s thought, then she repeated, “Now tell me what it is you need.”

  Cara released a long and trembling sigh. “Blake . . . Do you know where he is, Aunt Gaby? And Andrew?”

  “Andrew is home with his parents.”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  “There is something else, Cara. Andrew was never reported missing.”

  “He came back to the same date he left here, didn’t he?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “If I came back last night . . . and Andrew came back in December—” Her throat tightened. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping she was wrong. She was barely able to speak. “Then Blake went back to the day he disappeared in 1979.”

  “It would seem probable.”

  “Don’t you know for sure?”

  “Cara . . . we are not always allowed to know.”

  “We? Or just me?”

  After a long pause, Gabriella switched the topic. “Call your sister. Tell her to stop by your house and look inside your mailbox on the curb. Your extra set of keys will be inside.”

  “When did you—? How did you know—? Oh, never mind.” Realizing the futility of such questions after six months of traveling through time, Cara accepted the unacceptable. “Thanks, Aunt Gaby.”

  “Go home, Cara. Get some sleep. We will talk more later.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Two hours later, Cara greeted her bewildered kid sister with a tearful hug, unable to hold back the emotional dam-burst. Aside from Aunt Gaby, Lucy was the only person who might be capable of believing everything that had just happened to her.

  When her sister insisted on pouring some coffee into Cara before either of them drove home to Long Beach, they parked their cars at a twenty-four-hour coffee shop nearby and went inside. The reintroduction to modem society after six months in the 1830s was a strange experience in itself. In a way, she was relieved to have Lucy with her instead of having to face the rest of the dark night alone with her thoughts.

  And without Blake.

  After sharing her bizarre journey through time, including their great-aunt’s participation, Cara knew she had to let her sister go back home to her own family, who were probably concerned about the emergency that had dragged Lucy out of bed.

  It was six o’clock in the morning by the time they said good-bye in the parking lot.

  Cara decided to drive home along the Pacific Coast Highway rather than take the freeway where higher speeds and traffic would be too much for her to handle. She felt like a crystal vase that had been shattered and glued back together again. Her body was here and whole, but her life was in pieces of confusion and shock and grief. There was a part of her that wanted desperately to turn the car around and go back to the ship. But another part of her resisted, knowing that Blake would not be in 1833 anymore.

  She passed through the beach cities, stopping at traffic lights, staring at the early-morning joggers or watching surfers in wet suits on the water. As Highway 1 wound along the coastline through Sunset Beach, she realized she was going to pass by the entrance to the Huntington Harbour community.

  “Andrew,” she whispered to herself. She had to stop at three pay phones before she found a phone book and the address she needed. Turning off PCH onto Admiralty Way, she found the house and parked in front, intending to wait until eight o’clock before disturbing the family. With luck, Andrew might open the door.

  Within a few minutes, however, Mr. Charles came out to get his Saturday morning L.A. Times. Obviously an early riser, he appeared to be dressed for a day on his sailboat. Cara left her car and approached him as he started back to the front door.

  “Mr. Charles?”

  He turned around with a pleasant smile, which quickly faded into a puzzled glance at her rumpled costume. “May I help you?”

  She could see he didn’t recognize her. “Is Andrew home?”

  Mr. Charles’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “No. He . . . spent the night with a frie
nd. Why would you want to see my son?”

  “I just wanted to know how he’s doing.”

  “He is perfectly fine.” He looked over her shoulder as if searching for someone or something. “What is this about? Who are you?”

  “My name is Cara Mas-uh, Cara Edwards, sir. I’ve been investigating a disappearance of a child from a ship in Dana Point called the Mystic.”

  “Yes, my son went on it with his class last December.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to Andrew regarding my case.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t recall any news about a missing child lately. Something like that would be all over the papers and television.”

  “The police are trying to keep it quiet,” she lied, sensing his suspicions escalating. “Please, Mr. Charles. I need to see Andrew.”

  “No, I won’t allow it. As far as I know, you could be some kook trying to get at me through my son. If some kid was lost or fell off that ship recently, you wouldn’t need to be coming here after all this time to talk to Andrew.”

  “But I must—”

  “Get the hell out of here.” He started toward her, but she stood her ground. When he grabbed her arm and started to escort her to the curb, she felt his fear. Through his touch, she saw a vision of Andrew with dark circles under his dull, lifeless eyes.

  Pulling her arm from his grasp, she turned to face him, knowing she had nothing to lose by telling him the truth. She hastily explained his desperation to find his son a few weeks earlier, how he’d come to her for help, and how she had brought the boy back last night. And yet Andrew had ended up returning to the actual night he’d disappeared.

  “The boy with the hollow eyes is not the same child who went onto that ship on December twenty-second, Mr. Charles. He needs help. He needs someone to talk to, someone who will believe his story. Andrew will keep slipping away unless you reach out to him.”

  She knew her emotional barrage had stunned the man into silence. But now that she was finished talking, she saw his shocked expression turn into fury.

  “You are a disturbed, delusional nutcase, lady.” He pointed his finger an inch from her nose. “If you come anywhere near my son, I swear to God I’ll have you committed to a mental institution for life.”

  With his political and financial clout, he could probably do it, too.

  “I’m leaving, Mr. Charles,” she assured him. “And I promise to stay away from Andrew. But I want you to know I would never do anything to hurt your son, even though you might not believe me. Good-bye, sir.”

  Without saying another word to her, he stormed into the house, slamming the door behind him as she walked toward the curb.

  Cara drove the rest of the way home feeling like a shell-shocked war victim. As she maneuvered her car on the streets of Long Beach, a wave of sadness washed over her, bringing tears so heavy she could hardly see the blurry road ahead of her.

  Where did her life go from here? How could she possibly pick up where she left off yesterday? Or was it six months ago? She knew she couldn’t simply go into her house, take a shower, and get a good night’s sleep, expecting to feel fine in the morning.

  By the time she parked on her shady street, she had drifted back into the numbness. Her body was functioning on autopilot, walking along the flagstone path past her landlady’s house on the front of the property. She let herself into her little bungalow, dropped the keys next to the phone, and automatically hit the playback button on the answering machine out of habit.

  Half listening while she headed toward the bedroom, she heard a message from Lucy, calling from a cellular phone in her car, wanting to make sure Cara had gotten home okay. Another message was from a friend who wanted to go sailing next weekend.

  Been there, done that, she mused with a tired smile of irony.

  After calling her sister, Cara turned down the volume on her answering machine and went to bed. By noon she gave up trying to sleep and took a shower. Dressed in a blue chambray shirt and jeans, she paced her living room floor in spite of her exhaustion, ignoring the ringing telephone, unwilling to deal with solicitors or anyone else at the moment. Her mind went over and over the speculation that had been gnawing at her all morning. Blake must have gone back to 1979, and yet she sensed a strong, tangible connection to him, as if he were somewhere near.

  Somewhere . . . but where?

  She sank down onto her rattan rocker and went through the steps to quiet her thoughts so she could pick up any information about him. Instead, she saw a vision of Andrew talking to his father. Cara knew in her heart that Andrew would be okay.

  But what about Blake?

  Nothing came to her.

  She tried to block any outside thoughts, but her mind kept going back to the memories of Blake holding her and loving her. When the pain became too great for her to bear, she shot to her feet. “Why?” she cried out in anguish, shaking her fists at the ceiling.

  She demanded an answer. She deserved an answer.

  A sudden impulse drove her to grab her keys and run out the door.

  Chapter 21

  Within twenty minutes, Cara arrived at her aunt’s doorstep.

  “I knew you would come,” said Gabriella, holding out her arms for a hug. Cara went to her and felt the comfort and love she so desperately needed right now.

  “Please help me, Aunt Gaby. I’ve got to try and make some sense of all this or I’ll go mad.”

  Gabriella took her hand and led her into the living room, where both of them sat down together on the sofa.

  Cara looked at her aunt. “I don’t know what reality is anymore,” she said, chilled by the idea that she might very well be losing her mind. “I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams.”

  “You have been through so much, I know. But there are reasons for everything. You have to believe.”

  “Believe in what?” Her despair turned to anger. “I’m supposed to believe in some god, some universal force that goes around messing with people’s lives, then leaves them in a state of shock, wondering if they are insane? Why! Tell me why this had to happen, especially to Andrew and Blake. They were just kids!”

  “Children disappear all the time throughout the world. Hundreds. Thousands,” explained Gabriella with the gentleness of an old soul passing along her wisdom of the ages. “They slip through to another time more easily than adults because they have not yet built a wall in their minds of superstitions and beliefs about what is really real and what is not. Their minds are fertile, craving to learn more, willing to accept the impossible. They go and never come back. Or rarely ever come back.”

  “Then why did I interfere? Why did you talk me into searching for Andrew?”

  “It was as much your own destiny as Andrew’s and Blake’s. You have the gift of believing in the things that most people refuse to admit are possible—seeing and hearing and knowing beyond the scope of defined reality in this present-day culture.”

  “But why the children? And why the abuse?”

  “Not every child who goes to another time is hurt and abused. Most of them find loving homes. Think of it, Cara. A child travels on a train, then goes back in time and grows up to become an inventor who knows that trains are possible because he has already experienced it. Such knowledge for a child can move technology forward unlike anything an adult time-traveler could ever do. The adults are often crippled by their fears and their determination to make sense of their supernatural journey through time. They put all their energy into trying to get back. A child adapts sooner. A child can arrive less conspicuously and be taken in by a loving family who cares for him until he is of age. A child who has lived in another time never questions the advances in technology but is at the forefront of advances, leading the way. Think about the leaders in science, in religion, in social reform. They are often called freethinkers, and ‘ahead of their time.’ How many of them might have been children who had come through from another time?”

  Cara asked, “But what about Andrew and t
he other children who return from their travels?”

  “Usually they convince themselves their time-traveling was all a fantastic dream.”

  “Or a nightmare,” muttered Cara. A shudder went through her as she recalled the horrible visions she’d seen of both Andrew and Blake. “But they can’t even talk about their traumatic experience because it would sound crazy to people of today. A kid could be convinced that it was all a bad dream. But an adult? What about Blake?”

  Gabriella patted Cara’s hand reassuringly. “When you live in a society of limited beliefs, you tend to unconsciously mold yourself to the accepted reality. And so, as an adult with certain fears and a certain shutting down of reality, Blake might very well have also relegated his previous experience in another time to merely a dream.”

  A finality in her aunt’s tone of voice prompted Cara to persist in seeking her answers. “But where does all of this leave me? Where is Blake? How do I find him?”

  “What does your heart tell you?”

  “I don’t need riddles, Aunt Gaby. Please tell me.”

  “No, it is not up to me to tell you what to do. I have given you the information. Now it is up to you to choose the path you will take. And you already know what it is. Look inside, Cara.”

  Unable to deny the strong pull toward the Mystic, Cara searched her aunt’s eyes, drawing strength and wisdom from her. She realized she had only one choice.

  “I’m going back.”

  The warm spring day had drawn a heavy crowd to the beach by midday, causing congested traffic on the freeways by late afternoon. Still dressed in her chambray shirt and jeans, Cara cursed the extra time she had taken to retrieve the period clothing that she’d left at her house. As her car crept along at a snail’s pace, she glanced over at the costume lying on the passenger seat. She was scared as hell, but the flutter in her stomach told her she was doing the right thing.

  It was twilight by the time she reached Dana Point. The institute was closed and the longboats locked away for the night. She had no alternative but to “borrow” a small inflatable lifeboat from the marina.