Lock & Key

by Gordon Bonnet

  She gave him another intense look. “Thank you.” She turned and they began to walk again. They went a little farther, and she said, “Why is it you want to meet my father? You said that to Murrell, and then said that you wished to join my father’s church. But I didn’t believe it then, and I do not believe it now.”

  “Neither did Murrell.”

  “So, why? How do you know about him? And why do you want to meet him?”

  Dammit. Here we go again. I have to tell the truth. It all comes of being such a lousy liar.

  “I’m actually not from this century,” he said, a little tentatively.

  She laughed. “What could that possibly mean?”

  “I’m from the future.”

  She made a dismissive sound. “You needn’t treat me like a child. I am not one. Such stories are for children.”

  “No. This is true.”

  Something in the way he spoke made her grip tighten on his arm, and she looked up at him.

  “Prove it,” she said.

  “I don’t know that I can.”

  “Then do not ask me to believe you. And in any case, what would some man from the future want with my father? He is neither very important nor very smart. He is not the man I would expect anyone from the future would take the trouble to visit.”

  “Nevertheless, there is a reason,” he said. “And not only to visit him. To visit you.”

  “Why?”

  He took a deep breath. “It’s hard to explain, because I don’t fully understand it myself. I was sent back here because another man—someone from my time—has gone back and changed things. Altered people’s lives in such a way as to create chaos in our time. I was sent back to find out what he did, and to try to fix it. And somehow, one of the things he did has to do with you.”

  “Does it? I can assure you that I have never met anyone else from the future.” Her mouth curled upwards a little, and he wasn’t sure whether she was mocking him.

  “It’s possible you met him and didn’t know it. You didn’t know I was from the future, until I told you.”

  “That’s true. What year have you come from?”

  “Two thousand sixteen.”

  Her eyebrows went up a little. “Indeed. That is far distant from this year. Things must be much different.”

  “They are.”

  “Tell me about your time.”

  “I don’t know if I should. I don’t want to tell you anything that will change what’s supposed to happen. I mean, suppose I told you something about your future that was supposed to happen, and you decided that you didn’t like it, so you made it not happen? It could create all kinds of problems. In fact, that’s what we think Lee did.”

  “Lee?”

  “The man from my time I am trying to find.”

  “Ah.” She paused, and seemed to be pondering his words. “It is a strange story. I would, if I were you, not mention any of this to my father. He is a singularly unimaginative man.”

  He looked at her. “Do you believe me?”

  She didn’t answer for a moment. “No. You’re probably telling the truth, but no, I don’t believe you.”

  That seemed like such an odd assessment that he didn’t have a ready answer, and for a while they walked in silence.

  The noise of the crowds drifted to him before the tent came into view. He looked over at Jane. She seemed to be trying not to respond to the familiar sounds of a revival meeting, but her feelings showed in a tightness of her lips and a hard glint in her eyes. This was a homecoming that would not be a cause for rejoicing, for father or daughter.

  It wasn’t until they came up to the rear of the crowd that he realized that what was going on wasn’t your typical evangelical revival. He knew a little about such things, which still existed in his twenty-first century world, even though rare. But he’d never seen, much less attended, one. He’d heard, however, about the speaking in tongues, the fainting, the crying out for God’s blessing by one and all, that accompanied the frenzied shouts of the preacher to call on God’s Holy Name and be healed.

  This, by comparison, looked like outdoor theater. It was possible some of the audience took the whole thing seriously, but it was evident Brother Zebulon had by this time lost his luster, and the attendees were coming to his performances more for humor than to be touched by the Holy Spirit.

  As he maneuvered his way up through the hundred or so people who were watching the spectacle, he heard, “Hit him again!” and “Harder!” as much as he heard “Amen!” and “Hallelujah!” And far more people were laughing out loud than was probably typical at a revival.

  Several people were gathered under a large canvas tent, enclosed on three sides, with a plank floor like a low stage. All were in frantic motion. One of them was a tall, paunchy man, dressed all in white, and wearing a round straw hat. He was gesturing to the assembled crowd, and saying, “… the way to the Lord is through seeking out pain, embracing pain, so as to be one with Jesus Christ’s suffering!”

  A rail-thin man with a prominent nose and a shock of unruly black hair shouted, “Amen, Brother Zebulon! Amen! I want to be closer to the Lord!”

  “Thank you for your devotion, Brother William!” the fat man said. “Prepare to receive the sacrament!”

  Brother William held his hands up in the air and closed his eyes, and the fat man slapped him across the face.

  The crowd gave a cheer.

  “That wasn’t much of a hit!” someone shouted. “My sick grandmother could hit harder than that!”

  “Yeah, if he’s still standing afterwards, you didn’t hit him hard enough!” yelled another, and everyone laughed.

  Brother Zebulon seemed well aware that his words were not having the desired effect. He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow, despite the fact that the air was still chilly, and said, “Now, brothers and sisters, the point is not to knock out Brother William here, but to bring him closer to the suffering Jesus felt! Are there any here who are feeling moved by the spirit of the Lord to come witness to the power of Jesus? To feel what he felt? A step forward is a step closer to Jesus, brothers and sisters!”

  A man near the front of the crowd suddenly lurched forward.

  “Excellent, my friend!” Brother Zebulon said, breaking into a broad, and rather surprised-looking, grin. “What is your name, brother?”

  “What the hell?” the man said, scowling, and then pointed into the crowd. “He pushed me!”

  This elicited more laughter.

  “Never mind how you got here,” Brother Zebulon said. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, and through unexpected means. But here you are now. Are you going to witness the power of Our Lord Jesus Christ Risen and Triumphant Through Suffering?”

  “Right now I think I’m gonna witness a little suffering on Johnny Dinkins’s ugly face.” The man rushed forward and tackled the man who pushed him. An appreciative roar went up from the crowd. Apparently this was even better than most of Brother Zebulon’s revival meetings.

  At this point, Brother Zebulon seemed to realize he was fighting a losing battle, and he said, “Well, brothers and sisters, I see that the time is not yet ripe for you to receive Jesus’ message. Perhaps we should all retire to our homes and ponder the message we have heard today…”

  But no one was listening. In fact, several other members of the crowd had leaped into the fray, and the whole thing was devolving into a small-scale riot.

  Brother Zebulon, Brother William, and the five or six other people who appeared to be the revival leaders, backed away from the crowd until they were in a tight knot at the back corner of the tent.

  Brother Zebulon said, “I think it’s time to leave.”

  “For today? Or for good?” said Brother William.

  “Both.” Brother Zebulon pulled a flap at the side of the tent, stepped outside and strode away in the direction of several wagons and a cluster of smaller tents that stood about a hundred yards off.

  Jane broke into motion toward the retreating
figure.

  “Father!” she called.

  The man turned slowly, ponderously, and there was a moment where he simply frowned, as if he weren’t quite sure what he was seeing. Then he said, “Jane?”

  She slowed to a walk, and when she reached him gave him a perfunctory hug, which Brother Zebulon returned in a half-hearted, puzzled sort of fashion.

  Darren came up behind them, embarrassed at having to witness this, and even more anxious about the greater confrontation that was sure to come.

  “Jane…” Brother Zebulon said. “Where have you been? Your mother… your mother has been sick unto death worrying about you. We thought you might be dead.”

  “I’m not.” Her voice was flat.

  “But where were you?”

  “I think you know the answer to that,” she said. “Father, I went with Murrell. I’ve been there, up until yesterday, when this man helped me to escape. His name is Darren Ault, and he was being held captive by Murrell’s men. He and I conspired to escape, and came into Concord last night.”

  Brother Zebulon looked at him, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You were also taken up with that Devil Man?”

  “No.” He cleared his throat nervously. “They kidnapped me. All I wanted was to get away. If I hadn’t, they surely would have murdered me by now. Your daughter helped me escape. In fact, if it hadn’t been for her, I would never have succeeded.”

  Brother Zebulon turned back to Jane. “And you, my daughter… you were also kidnapped?”

  “I think you know the answer to that, too, Father. I wasn’t kidnapped. I went with him willingly. But yesterday I knew it was time for me to leave, and I also knew that Murrell would not let me go willingly. When I saw this man, and realized what they were planning to do to him, I thought that I could escape, and help him to escape, too. Two have a greater chance than one alone. And so it proved. Here I am.”

  “Well,” Brother Zebulon said, a little tentatively, “praise Jesus that the prodigal daughter has come back to us.”

  The corners of Jane’s mouth twitched a little. “I’m glad you see it that way, Father. I wondered if you might order me to leave your sight.”

  Brother Zebulon shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Well, you know, forgiveness is commanded of us by the Lord.”

  She looked him straight in the eyes. “Does that forgiveness extend to a daughter who is carrying Murrell’s child?”

  Brother Zebulon’s fleshy face paled. “You… you had carnal relations with… that man?”

  She laughed. “What, Father, did you think I spent a month living in his camp, sharing his quarters, in chaste innocence? Yes, we were lovers. And I have his child here with me.” She rested a hand on her belly, as yet flat. “Your grandchild.”

  Her use of that word seemed to goad him, as if someone had stuck him with something sharp.

  “Jane,” he said, his voice stern, “you cannot be in your right mind. I must insist that you come back into the fold. I will not ask for your participation in our Holy Sacrament. You are far astray from the path, too far astray for it to do you good in any case. But you cannot simply stand there, brazen, and not be shamed into repentance.”

  “Do not talk to me of repentance. The kind of penance you would have me do is foolishness, and I cannot help but think the Lord God is far likelier to see it my way than yours. You will not lay a hand on me, not now, not ever, and if that means that I am never to see you again, then so be it. I have a warm place to stay, and a promise of employment. My child will not be born into abject poverty.”

  Several men stood behind Brother Zebulon, and from their aghast expressions, they had never heard any of Brother Zebulon’s family confront him before.

  “If you have discounted everything I have ever taught you,” he said, “think at least of your mother.”

  “I do think of her. I pity her, far more than you know. I would at least say farewell to her, if you will allow it.”

  Brother Zebulon drew himself up, as much to save whatever face he had left before his followers as to make a point with his daughter.

  “We shall see,” he said. “I cannot visit this pain on her right now. I think we are soon to leave this town, and such a thing is hard on a woman. To tell her of your sins, and your horrid change of heart, and how you have embraced this wickedness—no, that I cannot do. Another time… we shall see.” He turned to Darren, and for the rest of the conversation, acted as if Jane did not exist. “As for you, sir, I thank you for bringing my daughter back. I have no doubt that your part in it was valiant, and I hold you in no way accountable for my daughter’s fall into evil. You seem like a good man…” A canny look came into his eye. “Perhaps you might be moved by the spirit to join our little band of holy warriors? You might know that we embrace pain, so as to become closer to the suffering of Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  “Um…” he said. “Well, thanks a lot and all that, but I’m afraid I have to say no. I’m… um… otherwise affiliated.”

  “Oh? And by which doctrine do you live your life? There are many excellent sects in the wide world, although none—if I may say so—as pure as our own.”

  He frantically ran over all of the names of religions, Christian and otherwise, he’d ever heard of. His parents had been agnostic, and he’d been raised without much in the way of information about what sorts of things the rest of the world believed in.

  “I belong to the… um… First Reformed Latter-Day Full Gospel Holy Knights of the Round Table,” Darren said, all in one breath, and then added, “Of God.”

  Brother Zebulon looked impressed. “My word. I’ve never heard of them.”

  “We’re a small sect,” he said, which was truthful enough.

  A roar went up from the crowd, which was apparently still cheering on the fight going on in front of the tent.

  “Well.” Brother Zebulon glanced around nervously, “I would love nothing more than to discuss doctrine with you, but I really must be going. You see… my family and I are being called by the Lord to move on, so I believe we should prepare for our departure.”

  “I understand. I’ll head on back into town, then.”

  “Yes.” Brother Zebulon pointedly avoided looking at his daughter. “I’m much obliged to you, sir, for the good deed you tried to do for me and mine, however it turned out. That it went awry is hardly your fault, as you acted out of nothing but good intentions.” He raised his straw hat. “Good day.”

  “Good day.” He and Jane turned back toward town, giving the tent and the rioting townspeople a wide berth.

  After walking a little way, she said, “Well, that went as well as can be expected.”

  “Did it? I wouldn’t call being cut off cold by your own father ‘as well as can be expected.’”

  “Father will come around eventually. He’s a weak man, but not a bad one. He does not have the strength of will to hold a grudge for long. Right now, what is wounded is his pride. To have his eldest child caught out for fornication, and for her to be entirely unrepentant about it—well, he honestly doesn’t care so much about me, or my eternal soul, as his own standing with his people. It would be worse if I had asked for absolution, begged him to take me back. He would have done so, but then he would have been caught in a cleft stick. He would have had to grant forgiveness to me, and after that, every time afterwards that he saw me and my child, he would have been reminded that his daughter had gone astray. And his followers would see that even those in his own family weren’t as holy as he wanted them to think. It will be easier all around if I simply vanish, if his followers are allowed to think I was kidnapped and killed.”

  “Some of them were here. His followers. They saw you, you know.”

  “Doesn’t make any difference. They tell themselves stories, you know? That’s all they really do. Before three weeks have passed, and they’re settled in somewhere new, they’ll be talking about the terrible thing that happened to Brother Zebulon’s daughter, how she was taken by a devil man, stolen away from the flock.
I’ll be worked into sermons as a cautionary note, but not too negative, being that I’m of Brother Zebulon’s blood. I’ll be the poor victim of Satan, that they tried to save, but the Evil One proved too strong. A martyr to the cause, you see? After a while, they’ll all believe it, and it’ll be as if it had really happened that way.”

  “That’s sad.” He looked down at the dirt road, unable to think of anything else to say.

  “That’s all any of us do,” she said. “Tell ourselves stories, and repeat them often enough that we finally believe them, until we don’t know ourselves what is real and what we invented.” She smiled a little. “But perhaps after a while he will return here, and my father will be able to remember that he has a daughter. Perhaps he’ll be able to find it in his heart to admit me as his child again. Or perhaps not. He is a petty, fearful man, and I think he knows that in his heart. He hates being reminded of it.”

  “You seem to know your father well.”

  “None better.”

  “Are you content with your choices?”

  She shrugged. “Does it matter?” And then she looked up at him, a slight smile on her face. “I suppose it must matter to you, since you asked. You are a kind man. Do you have a woman, in your land and your far distant time?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Is there none you would have?”

  Unbidden, the memory of Maíre Gillacomgain came to mind—her beauty, her voice, her ready laugh, and especially the soft warmth of her mouth on his, when she kissed him in the rain after he freed her from the Vikings. Not that I’ll ever get to kiss her again, he thought. She’s dead and gone, over a thousand years ago.

  “Just don’t have any luck with women, I guess,” he said.

  “Your luck in other respects seems considerable. There are few who have survived being waylaid by Murrell and his men. And you came through your other adventures unscathed, did you not?”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “Then perhaps luck in love will find you some day.”

  “Perhaps.” He studied her closely. “But you never answered my question. Are you content with your choices, now that they are made?”