New Writers

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Extinction of a Timeline

Chapter 1

“Oh my God, Catherine! When? When did it happen?” Henry inquired in dismay.

“Early this afternoon. He just collapsed. I can’t believe it’s his heart,” she replied flatly. Catherine’s raw emotions had numbed her, which helped make it sound as if she was holding herself together, but her head felt as though it would implode at any moment.

“Why didn’t you call me right away?”

“What do you mean?” she asked edgily. “I just got off the phone with my sister… she waited until my dad was stable before calling Michael and me. For God’s sake, Henry, don’t you know I would call you right away?” Her shattered nerves got the better of her and she started to sob.

“Of course you would . . . of course you would,” Henry repeated trying to calm her. “Please don’t cry. I’ll be on the first plane back home.”

“No!” she blurted out. “You can’t do that. You’re needed there.”

“Like hell! I need to be with you!”

Catherine cradled the phone on her shoulder and tried to blow her nose. “Henry,” she shook her head as though he could see her, “listen to me, it would take you too long to get here. My sister said it’s pretty dicey. I need to leave now.”

Her urgency made him shudder. He did not want her to be alone. Not now. “Catherine,” he paused. “what flight are you taking?”

When she hesitated to respond, he barked, “You’re not driving? Not on your own.” He waited and when she still did not answer him he exploded in alarm, “You can’t be serious. You can’t drive by yourself … not in your current frame of mind. It’s too far. You’ll be driving at night. You could fall asleep. Please,” he implored her, “get a flight in the morning.”

“The best case scenario on a flight,” Catherine responded in a controlled, but soft tone, “doesn’t get me there until five in the afternoon. Best case, Henry. If I drive, worst case I’ll get there late morning.”

“That isn’t the worst case, Catherine, The last thing your dad needs is you in a ditch somewhere.”

“Damn it! Don’t start with me, Henry.”

“You hate that road at night,” he shot back.

“I don’t need you to remind me of that.”

“Obviously you do.” Henry was desperate and more than willing to incur her wrath. “What about the animals? You know they come out more at night. You know how many get hit along that highway. You’ve seen them.”

“Henry,” she stated using his name as an order to stop. “And what about the other stuff…”

“Henry!” she screamed. “Shut the hell up!”

“I’m just trying to get you to look at this reasonably, Catherine, please. There are a lot of long, lonely stretches, and I won’t be there to talk to you.”

“Talk to me? Hell, Henry, you were fast asleep the last time we got a late start, because of you may I add.”

“Yes, Catherine,” he said with a sigh.

“I’m just saying, I was the one driving back then, and I may as well have been alone.”

Henry said nothing. “Sorry,” Catherine muttered.

“I woke up,” he stated emphatically, “when you screamed because you thought you saw something weird along the side—”

“I did not scream. I emphatically yelled, and like you said long stretches of lonely road.”

“That you think you should drive on your own, when your mind isn’t—”

“I have to, Henry,” her voice did not contain a trace of compromise.

Henry was at a loss.

“I’ll be careful. I promise,” she assured him to assuage the guilt she was beginning to feel. “I’ll stop if I get sleepy.”

He didn’t respond.

“Henry?”

“What do you want me to say, Catherine? That I’m all right with you doing this?” he asked his anxiety palpable. “I can’t.”

“I’ll call you,” she said and hung up before he made her reconsider.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Catherine drove on autopilot, noting the traffic on the highway heading north out of Denver, but barely noticing any of the familiar landmarks along her route. As she approached the state line between northern Colorado and southern Wyoming, she saw a highway patrol car flash its lights to pull over another vehicle. She reflexively eased up on the gas pedal and then looked at the clock on the dash and at the surrounding landscape before realizing how far she had traveled. She turned the radio up and forced herself to keep her mind on the road and not on her father.

She stopped to gas up before hitting the first long, lonely stretch of highway. As she filled the gas tank, she looked at the warning sign: do not use cell phones around gas pumps. Static. Something must have happened, somewhere. Warnings usually cropped up after an incident, no matter what the likelihood of it happening again. She glanced at the car opposite hers. The man in the passenger seat was having a heated exchange—on his cell phone. No one paid attention to signs. The pump handle clicked, she took her receipt and exited the station quickly. There was no sense in tempting Murphy’s Law, not on this trip.

She merged back onto the highway, and found a radio station with a mix of, more or less, familiar music so she could sing along and keep her brain engaged. So what if she made up some of the words? Who would it bother? There was no one but her. Catherine felt a twinge of unease and glanced to her left where the sun was sinking ever lower in the sky. She pulled the visor up and over to her side window to help shield the glare on her flank and was thankful that she was still travelling north so that the sun was not going down directly in front of her. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and from years of experience, she knew that the visor would do nothing to shield a direct onslaught of the brilliant, blinding light. As the car crested a slight incline, she spotted a dark streak further ahead, right in her path, ominous looking clouds that looked more like one large organized system. Crap! In April, she would be lucky if they only held rain, yet she had no choice, she had to keep going. So much for eluding Murphy’s Law.

When the radio station inevitably began to break-up she reached down to grab a CD out of the side pocket next to her, but all she could feel was the plastic well. She reached up, flicking on the overhead light, and glanced down.

Empty. She stretched her neck and quickly glanced over at the passenger door, it looked empty too. “Damn it!”

Catherine yelled aloud and hit the steering wheel with the heel of her hand. She had no choice but to turn her attention back to the radio, painstakingly advancing through each position on the FM and AM bands. She listened intently to the beep, beep, beep and was rewarded each time with static.

“It should be easier to find a station at night,” she protested. A drop of rain hit the windshield and danced across the glass. “Oh give me a break!” Driving through the dark night for hours, she had spaced out the threatening storm. She had grown up travelling on highways where the dark closed in around you as lights from human habitation disappeared entirely, and lights from other vehicles could be spotty or non-existent for many miles and yet the darkness she found herself in now felt merciless. The clouds were so completely blanketing the night sky above her, the comforting shine from the moon and stars could not penetrate.

Catherine suddenly felt entirely alone, cut off from everything and everyone. She shuddered just as the rain began to pick up. She turned on the wipers and the heat.

The rain danced in the beam of her headlights, mesmerizing her along with the drumming rhythm on the car’s roof. The downpour grew more and more frenzied, and the tympani on the car roof grew louder and louder. Catherine squirmed uneasily as the tires fought through standing water on the road. She reduced her speed as she imagined the car hydroplaning right off the glistening blacktop.

“Please, please let up,” she began whispering.

It had to, otherwise she would have to pull over and wait out the storm on the shoulder of the highway. The skin on her arms tingled. No! She would not sit alone on the side of the highway in the middle of a deluge. If another car came along the driver might not see her in time, and no matter what she was not about to sit gazing off into the vast emptiness that really wasn’t quite so empty. The prickling sensation spread down her spine. She stomped on the gas pedal but the resistance of the water against the tires made her slow down again. Suddenly, headlights flooded the rear view mirror almost blinding her. In a feeble attempt to stay out in front of the approaching car, she increased her speed. As the other car tore past, creating a tidal wave of water in its wake, she frantically pulled on the windshield wiper lever just as the water smashed onto her windshield, completely blinding her view of the road.

“Son of a bitch!” she screamed, reflexively lifting her foot off the gas pedal.

Every nerve in her body was on high alert as the car slowed. She frantically checked the rear view mirror, to make sure no other jerk was speeding up behind her, as she tried to reoriented herself. She pulled over to the side of the road, but managed to kill the engine in the process.

“Son of a bitch! Catherine screamed again gripping the steering wheel with a determination meant to quell her rattled nerves. A flash of motion to her right caught her attention, just as she was able to release the steering wheel. She froze.

“Please, please, please be an animal,” Catherine whispered keeping her eyes locked on her trembling hands. She could hear whatever it was getting closer. She closed her eyes but flashed on all the things you did not want approaching you in the dead of the night on a deserted stretch of highway. Her eyes shot open, and she stared into the darkness. Nothing. She listened intently, nothing.

“That’s it,” Catherine said loudly, “no more scary movies. Just making myself crazy.” She reached for the ignition and turned the key, the instrument lights came on, but the engine did not turn over. She gaped at the panel, fighting off the resurging panic.

“Damn it,” she said through clenched teeth before realizing the car was in gear instead of in neutral. She tried again and the engine caught. As she put in the clutch and shifted the car into first gear, she checked the rearview mirror; no approaching headlights so she could carefully accelerate back onto the highway. She instinctively glanced into her side mirror, definitely no sign of another car. She sought the passenger side mirror. Every ounce of air in her lungs expelled in one huge gasp. Her foot forced the gas pedal down, propelling the car forward in a desperate attempt to get away from the side of the road. The tires spit up wet gravel until the front driver’s side tire hit the asphalt, jerking the car to the left, causing the passenger side front tire to connect with the road abruptly. She almost lost control as the rear end whipped but she let up on the gas, and hit the highway at an oblique angle. When all four tires finally connected with the pavement, she straightened the car and depressed the gas pedal to the floor.

Catherine propelled the car down the highway, struggling to keep her emotions from overwhelming her. She looked at the clock on the dash. Her mind was so jumbled the glowing numbers meant nothing to her. She concentrated all of her energy on the white stripe in the middle of the road, not even registering the fact that the rain had eased to a steady drizzle. As she came over a small crest she could see the twinkle of lights in the distance, at least she thought she did. She really wasn’t sure if she could trust her own eyes…but wait, there, there, a road sign. She sat up very straight, and felt the strain her muscles were under, as she approached the first exit. The pain almost made her cry out, but she refused to let herself succumb. She needed to make it to a motel, then, only then, could she release the tight control she was maintaining on herself. As she pulled into the parking area of the first motel she came to she felt a wave of relief, but she still had to make it to a room before she could allow the tension in her body to ease.

Catherine’s hand that held the key to the motel room shook so badly that she had to set her bag down and steady her aim with her other trembling hand. After several failed tries at opening the door, she finally succeeded. She dropped her bag on the floor as she closed the door, locked the deadbolt, and set the security bolt in place, all in a numb stupor. She stood in the middle of the room staring blankly until her knees buckled under her, and she slumped onto the floor. She struggled over to the foot of the bed, propping herself up against it and began to cry without uttering a sound.

She didn’t know how long she stayed that way before she forced herself up off the floor and into the bathroom. When she saw her reflection in the mirror, she recoiled. The whites of her eyes were gone, consumed by fiery red, and the dark rings beneath them appeared to be seeping downward towards her unnaturally pale cheeks. No wonder the night clerk kept avoiding looking at her directly. She looked haunted. She closed her eyes and the image of what she had seen at the side of the highway filled her mind.

She began running cold water into the sink and splashed it up onto her face repeatedly until her hands began to ache from the chilly water. She stood staring into the mirror trying to force the image from her mind but couldn’t. An indistinguishable face that seemed so close to the car, but somehow Catherine had sensed a distance. The object in your mirror may be farther away than it appears. She thought somewhat giddily until she thought about the other people emerging out of the night. They weren’t real of course, she assured herself. Her rattled nerves had caused her imagination to go completely wild.

So why had the anguish seemed so palpable?

“Get a grip,” she instructed her reflection harshly.

Catherine heard ringing. She clapped her cold hands over her ears, thinking it was in her head, but it was coming from the other room . . . her cell phone . . . Henry.

Chapter 2

Keitha bolted upright, the ringing still echoing in her ears. She looked over hoping that she had not woken him up this time, but no. Even in the restricted light that crept into the room, she could see his beautiful chestnut eyes watching her, waiting to see what she would do next. Such a gentle, loving face but it currently held the worried look she had seen so many times before.

She leaned over and in a soothing voice said, “It’s okay, Murphy,” and for added reassurance, “Everything is all right.” At the sound of her steady calm voice his ears, which had been standing straight up, on full alert, relaxed.

She swung her legs over the edge of the cot, which immediately caused the dog to get up and come over to her side. She patted his thick muscular neck, and continued to murmur, “It’s okay,” as she made her way over to the opposite wall where several shirts were hanging off a steel peg that protruded from the rock. She threw one over her head, extracted a pair of pants from a short stack on the floor and pulled them on. She felt Murphy tense and whipped around, a shadowy form was in the entry, but before she could say or do anything the figure spoke.

"It’s just me.” There was no mistaking the low steady timbre of the voice.

“How long have you been lurking there, Terran?” Keitha confronted the man as she pulled on her pants.

“Don’t get all defensive,” he replied.

“How long?” she asked again, her voice ominous.

“Not long, Keitha,” he responded irritably. “And just so we’re clear I don’t lurk.”

“What would you call it, Terran? Standing there while I was getting dressed,” she accused.

“I was not, Keitha,” he protested intently, taking a step into the room. He abruptly halted as Murphy moved to block him. Terran stared from the dog to the woman. “Could you please ask him to let me come in?”

“Why should I do that?”

“Keitha, do you always have to be so difficult?”

“I’m not being difficult,” she replied.

Terran rolled his eyes.

“Have something to say?” Keitha’s eyes narrowed.

“Not really.”

“What do you want, Terran?” Keitha asked irritably.

“I’d like to come in.”

Keitha nodded at Murphy and the dog stepped aside. Terran walked into the room and took a seat on the piece of old wood that Keitha had found years ago and fashioned into a small bench.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

“I was just coming to let you know that Clara would like to have a word with you,” Terran stated ignoring her sarcasm, but he stood back up.

“And she sent you as her messenger. I’m honored,” Keitha said through clenched teeth. “What could she possibly want to see me about?”

“Seriously, Keitha,” he said in a tone that conveyed his displeasure at her feigned ignorance.

“I don’t have anything new to report,” she said, dismissively.

“Nothing,” he said in disbelief. “You haven’t heard or seen anything?”

“I didn’t say that,” she replied cryptically.

“You need to talk to Clara if you’ve learned anything, anything at all,” he said firmly.

Keitha straightened her back. “Run on back and tell Clara that if and when anything new happens, she’ll be one of the first to know.” Her voice was a barely controlled fury.

Murphy moved over and stood directly in front of Terran.

“Keitha, could you ask him not to stand so close?” Terran requested as calmly as he could. Although he knew the dog would not harm him, the proximity of the dog’s muzzle, and therefore his teeth, to Terran’s crotch made him instinctively reposition his hands in a protective move.

Keitha grinned. “It isn’t funny,” Terran said annoyed.

“Why don’t you just leave,” Keitha said and stepped forward touching Murphy on the shoulder. The dog backed away so Terran could depart.

She made sure that Terran was nowhere near the entrance and then looked at Murphy. “Who the hell does Clara think she is sending him down here like that? And why does she want to talk to me now?” She arched an eyebrow. “She is so infuriating,” Keitha slashed the air with a sweep of her arm, “I have no idea what the hell is going on with the woman, except that she’s traveling, that’s all I know.”

Exasperated, Keitha began pacing the small room with Murphy at her side, running her hand threw her close-cropped hair. Most of the adults in the colony, those that weren’t naturally bald, kept their hair cut very short.

Keitha stopped and the dog sat down, cocking his head to one side. “So she was by herself, so what? And all right, she seemed trouble about something, but that is not unusual.” She paused before decisively adding, “Like I said nothing new. So,” her tone brightened, “do you want to see if there is enough time to go visit the kids?”

Murphy’s tail started wagging in delight. Keitha finished dressing. She grabbed a pair of goggles off another peg as they exited the room side-by-side.

Keitha and Murphy began making their way down the side tunnels to the only clock in the colony. Most of the side tunnels allowed three people, or two people and one dog, to walk abreast of each other without any problem. During a shift change, or after a meal, if people came upon other people walking in the opposite direction, they would immediately form single file lines in order to pass without stopping. Keitha and Murphy’s room was at the farthest end of the longest side tunnel, which narrowed to the point where two people could not walk abreast of each other comfortably, but they rarely ran into anyone this deep in. She had specifically asked the council for approval to move to the secluded location, which had never been used as a sleeping area, because she wanted, needed, the isolation. She found it interesting that even though the colony was established generations ago most of the people still hesitated at the idea of being too deep within the tunnels or too deep beneath ground. Keitha, however, was unfazed by either.

When the tunnel began to widen they passed a smattering of other sleeping rooms. Keitha and Murphy continued walking until they came to an intersection with another side tunnel, and took a right turn. This area had many more sleeping rooms and they quietly moved forward, so that no one that was still sleeping would be disturbed. Finally, the side tunnel converged with one of the main tunnels, which were large enough to allow groups and machinery to move unhindered in both directions.

The walls of the side tunnels had grey concrete covering over the raw earth, a throwback to the time when their habitat had been a working mine, however, the main tunnels were ablaze with colorful paintings. The artwork, unlike the clock, was not something that the founders of their colony planned. Although the founders knew that people would need a sense of the passage of time underground, they had erroneously believed that short periods on the surface would be enough to stave off the oppressive bleakness. Just as an increasing number of the people began to show signs of mental fatigue, a girl began creating the exquisite images on the rock. The paintings gave people a sense of being in the art itself and although others tried to replicate what the girl was able to achieve, none possessed the same ability, and when she died there was no one to take over her work.

The main tunnel opened into a large circular space where several other tunnels also converged. The clock floated above the room, suspended from the ceiling with Teflon cabling, which was used to lower it every month so it could be hand wound.

Keitha and Murphy exited into one of the other main tunnels and from there into another side tunnel until they made their way to a shaft. Other people were already congregating in front of a metal gate. After everyone exchanged greetings, the person closest to the gate opened it and four people stepped onto a platform comprised of steel mesh grids, the same as the four man-cages from the mining era. The same person hit a button on a panel outside the cage and the bottom platform sank below the floor level, revealing the top platform. Keitha picked up a mat that was propped against the wall, and placed it over the exposed metal to provided Murphy with a comfortable place to stand. She and the remaining two people stepped on after the dog. Someone pushed a button on the inside of the cage several times before the cage began the ascent.

Keitha and Murphy entered the cage on the twenty-five hundred foot level, each level designated according to how many feet it was below the surface entrance to the mine. Everyone else exited the cage at the two thousand foot level, and before Keitha could press the button to continue the ascent, a hand appeared on the gate and an older woman glared in at Keitha.

“I understand you saw or heard something,” the woman demanded without the prelude of a greeting.

Keitha’s eyes narrowed. “Who told you that?”

“I don’t have time for your normal evasions, Keitha.”

“Really, Clara, well I don’t have time for you. We’re heading to the classroom.” Keitha pressed the button three times.

“I’m not done talking to you, Keitha,” Clara’s voice was sharp.

Keitha made no comment as the cage began to rise. She and Murphy exited on the fifteen hundred foot level, and made their way down to the classroom, which was located immediately off the main tunnel.

One of the youngest children spotted Keitha and Murphy at the entry to the room and squealed with delight, alerting everyone else to their presence.

“Hello,” Keitha greeted the children and scanned the room to find the two teachers.

“We thought we would stop by before I start my shift,” Keitha said, approaching the man and woman.

“The children have missed you both,” Eddy noted.

“I know it’s been a while.”

“It’s been over a month.”

“We’re glad you’re here now,” Brina, the other teacher, said. “We were just about to take the children up.”

“Well, we shouldn’t keep you,” Keitha said.

Brina and Eddy exchanged a look.

“How much time do you have?” Brina inquired.

Keitha paused. She had checked the clock and there was no hurry. She just didn’t appreciate Eddy, who had been her teacher when she was a child, making her feel guilty. “We have a little time,” she admitted.

“Excellent,” Eddy said. “Then you can help us.” He indicated the cubbyholes that contained protective outerwear of various sizes, plus goggles and hats.

Keitha nodded.

“And perhaps you can tell the children a story?” Brina asked graciously.

“Perhaps,” Keitha responded, but she knew she would.

The children lined up at the entrance to the room when they were completely outfitted and then paraded out into the main tunnel and over to the largest cage in the colony. When the cage reached the top of the shaft everyone exited and walked out into a domed area submerged in darkness.

The dome, designed by the founders, was made up of hundreds of thermoplastic panels that were strong yet lightweight and resistant to both hot and cold temperature changes. The panels interlocked without the use of adhesives, nails, screws or other hardware.

Although the founders brought extra panels to replace any that failed due to non-repairable damage or just the ravages of age, only six remained.

The original purpose of the dome was to protect a large outdoor area from ultraviolet radiation, but allow visible light penetration for agronomic production. Vegetative plots were also established outside of the dome to track the effects of ultraviolet intensity on various plants species however; those plants no longer existed. Only a handful of plant species inside the dome had survived as a viable food source, the rest had either died out or mutated. The founders anticipated the need for a second source of sustainable food for the colony and while the surface plants were still healthy, development and testing of the ‘next generation’ red and blue grow light source for underground agronomic application proceeded. The founders also knew that they had to negate what would in essence be a continuous situation of the ‘winter blues’ and developed a viable ‘visible light’ source at the same time.

The one thing the scientists could not negate was the sensation of being confined. Although the creation of the living art proved invaluable in counteracting the reaction, people still craved being on the actual surface. As surface conditions deteriorated, even with protective gear, the amount of time people could safely spend decreased until finally people were only allowed to surface for short periods at sunrise or at sunset.

Brina and Eddy led the children to a location where the land sloped slightly downhill, allowing the best view to the east. The area was a mix of rock, dirt, and surviving vegetative remnants, which had spread unchecked by human hands. The children took up their favorite perches on the rocks, worn smooth in places by the continuous use, while the adults, and Murphy, sat upon the ground.

“Keitha, a story please,” Eddy said.

She stared at Eddy for a moment but knew she couldn’t say no.

“What story do you want to hear?” Keitha asked the children.

“Tell us about how the archivists started,” one child asked.

“Yes, please.” All of the younger children immediately joined in.

“But the older children have heard that story many times,” Keitha noted, not at all in the mood to tell that particular tale. “Pick another one, Skyler,” she said to the child.

“We don’t mind if you tell it again, Keitha,” a boy assured her.

Keitha tried to keep the irritation out of her voice as she said, “That’s nice of you, Phelan, but why don’t I tell everyone…” The cry of ‘please’ by the rest of the children drowned out the rest of what she was trying to say.

Keitha held up her hand, her facial muscles hardening. Just as she was about to yell over the din Murphy’s paw landed in her lap. She looked into the dog’s eyes and let her hand drop. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll tell you how the archivists began.”

“The founders of our colony believed that societies collapsed, in part, because people never seemed to learn from history. The same pattern would repeat in different times, in somewhat different manifestations, but the same obsessions tended to drive people, power, and greed. The founders brought thousands upon thousands of documents with them when they established our colony that recorded what happened to their country and to other countries throughout the world, throughout time. They wanted their descendants to understand human history and to understand what caused them, some said forced them, to establish this place.”

Keitha paused for effect. “A place that many people of their time said was an experiment in futility that was destined to fail.”

“Keitha?” Brina asked in a concerned voice.

“Sorry,” Keitha apologized. “That is a different story.”

Brina nodded and Keitha continued.

“Unfortunately it didn’t take very long before all of the combined effort of the people of our colony had to be spent on developing and honing their very means of survival. Documents contained in the computer memory systems that dealt with crops, water, power, sanitation, prevention, and treatment of illness for the people and the animals, and many more issues, became the focus of document research. As a result, over the course of many decades, the historical records were left largely untouched, but in honor of the founders, they were preserved and maintained on one of the protein-based memory storage devices. Most of the historical documents would probably still be lying idle in the promem, the original intent of the founders unfulfilled, except for one particular girl who dreamt amazing dreams."

“The girl had vivid dreams that she would try to tell her parents about when she woke, but she didn’t always remember everything or understand what she saw, so many times her stories sounded jumbled. One day she overheard her parents talking about what a strange imagination she had, so she stopped telling them about her dreams. It wasn’t until she dreamt about the founders, conducting one of their early experiments, that she first began to wonder if there was something more to her dreams. Yet she had to admit that it could just as easily have been the lesson in class that fueled her imagination. Then right before she turned thirteen, she dreamt about a teeming mass of people roaming around each other in the open air. The girl could look up, as if she was really standing amongst them, and see the sky. It was so breathtaking she started to cry, waking herself up. The same dream kept reoccurring, and each time she saw more and more. There were so many things that she saw that she couldn’t identify or understand that she knew the dream was definitely not from her imagination and the idea that her dreams were more than just dreams resurfaced. She decided she had to find out if there was any evidence in the old historical records that the event she had been witnessing actually occurred."

“The girl submitted an off-task request to the council to allow her access to a data retrieval computer so she could review the historical records of the mid-twentieth century. At that time, a retrieval computer could only be used if it had not been assigned to a primary data retrieval effort, and only if it was not during the daily conservation cycle. Because of the restrictions very few off-task requests were ever made, which caused some members of council to ask the young girl the impetus for hers’. She did not believe that any adult would believe her if she told them about her dreams so she said she wanted to access an obscure plant research project that she thought might assist in the gardens.”

The younger children, who had never heard the story before, gasped.

“She lied?” Skyler asked with difficulty.

“She was afraid that the adults would just dismiss her request as the imaginings of a child, and then she would never be able to find out the truth for herself,” Keitha replied.

Skyler and many of the other children nodded in understanding.

Keitha continued with the story.

“The girl’s research proved very arduous. The retrieval computer was capable of searching through large volumes of information with great efficiency, but she only had a general idea, based on announcements that she glimpsed, when the event in her dream occurred. An inordinate amount of data met her broad search parameters, and because only the history of the colony was taught in the classroom, she had no sense of what might distinguish one decade from another so that she could narrow the queries."

“After months of reading she finally happened across a document that appeared to match elements of the dream, which helped her fix the exact time period, and from there she was able to retrieve a great deal that documented the event, but the more she found the more frustrated she became. She found publications and news stories that varied slightly, left out, skewed or completely contradicted parts of what she had observed in the dream. She became obsessed with determining what had really happened by finding corroborating documentation, and when she finally exhausted every lead, found every bit of information available to her, she knew she had to talk to someone. "

“She decided to confide in a young man. He was seventeen, and was the only person that had ever been allowed to forgo the final years of classroom training to apprentice in the gardens. Even though he worked with adults, he was not an adult in her eyes, and she had a feeling he would believe her. "

“The young man had come to speak to her class about the horticultural work a couple of months before she began her investigation into her dream. His talk had been very precise, scientific, and emotionless. It was obvious that he was very uncomfortable in the classroom, and was hurriedly leaving when he abruptly stopped and picked up a small kitten. She watched as his eyes changed, widening in delight as he gently stroked the kitten’s fur and spoke to it in a melodic, soothing tone. She silently inched forward hoping to hear a little of what he was saying when he turned suddenly and almost fell over her. He quickly recovered, handed her the kitten, ordered her teacher to change the feeding schedule and the formula, stated that the kitten was male and left. He was correct about everything and the kitten thrived. "

“The girl made her way down to the gardens and found the young man sitting at a bench littered with pots of fledgling vegetation. She asked if she could talk to him about something urgent and he turned an appraising eye on her, motioning for her to sit on a stool. "

“She started slowly, still partially afraid of his reaction, but her words started to come out faster and faster, until they spilled out of her in a torrent. She couldn’t keep it all to herself any longer. He listened to every word without showing any emotion and without interrupting her or telling her to slow down. After the girl finished she took a deep breath and waited anxiously. The young man remained silent, lost in thought until he finally said, ‘You need to go to the council and ask them continued access to the historic records.’”

“The girl protested vehemently stating that the adults on the council would never believe her. He offered to go with her, to speak for her, but she refused, and started to leave.”

“‘You have a unique ability,’ the young man stated.”

“The girl turned to him, her eyes wide, terrified globes. He immediately regretted being so direct, especially when her fear turned into anger. "

“‘Ability? What are you talking about?’”

“‘You’re able to do something that most other people can’t. Like the girl that painted the walls?’”

“‘You don’t know what you’re talking about!’ the girl railed at him.”

“‘I have a little idea,’ the young man replied evenly.”

“The girl stood glaring at him until a realization came to her. ‘The kitten?’ she asked, and he merely shrugged.

“They continued to talk and the young man convinced her that there was a reason that she was seeing the past, just as there was a reason why the founders brought the historical records with them and insisted that the colonists learn about what happened. “

"That’s something I don’t understand," the girl said. "Why would the founders bring erroneous records with them?"

“‘Maybe they wanted to teach us how easy it can be to skew facts. The observer always sees things unfold through their own eyes and that means they introduce a bias, even if they don’t mean to'."

“'Are you saying that my version is no more valid then any of the others I read?'" the girl asked him angrily."

“The young man smiled, and she felt mesmerized. She had never seen him smile before and almost didn’t hear him when he replied, ‘No I think you have the advantage of being an impartial witness.’”

Keitha paused. A pearly light, that foretold the coming of dawn, was beginning to break the shadowy blackness. She quickly finished the story.

“The young man persuaded the girl to go to the council where he spoke for her. He was extremely persuasive in his request for them to allow the girl continued access to the records that founders had taken such care to bring with them. Several of the council stated that there was no reason to waste time and energy on historical records that meant nothing to them but the young man persisted pointing out that the colony had failed to uphold one of the edicts of the founders, to learn from the past. The majority of the council agreed and with the help of several of them, the archivists were established.”

Keitha ended the story and looked over at two people who were standing by the portal to the mine, listening discretely. She saw the smile on the man’s face, warm and reassuring then she looked into the sharp, penetrating eyes of the woman.

“Well,” Keitha inquired, “was that a satisfactory rendition?”

Clara looked at her and said, “I was not that emotional and I was not mesmerized by his smile.”

“Nonsense, I definitely mesmerized you,” the man interjected, still smiling.

“That’s what you always say, Greer,” Clara noted brusquely as Greer broke into laughter and the children joined in, applauding wildly. Eddy and Brina smiled but looked ill at ease.

“I need to speak to Keitha,” Clara stated brusquely. “We’ll wait for you down on fifteen.” It was a command.

Keitha shifted her gaze back to the students who were all watching in anticipation. “The sun is rising,” she said and as everyone else turned their attention to the shimmering sky Keitha and Murphy made their way over to the cage and quietly left.

As they emerged on level fifteen hundred Keitha snarled, “Don’t ever command me like that again, Clara.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you were forthcoming with information,” Clara countered.

“I don’t have any new information,” Keitha continued to seethe.

“Terran seems to think there might be,” Clara stated.

“Does he,” Keitha said menacingly.

“Keitha?” Greer prodded gently. “Did you see anything, anything at all?”

She turned to him and her face relaxed, “Nothing helpful, I swear. She was just traveling on one of those highways… at night…by herself.”

Greer raised a hand to stop Clara from interrupting. “Do you know why she was on the highway? Where she was going?”

“No. She was really anxious so it was difficult to—”

“She was anxious,” Clara snapped. “You don’t think that’s important? What was she anxious about?”

“I don’t know!” Keitha roared. “So the woman is anxious. It isn’t anything new!”

“She does not get anxious for no reason. You need to appreciate what is happening to her or you will never be able to—”

“Really, do as I say, not as I did, is that it, Clara,” Keitha said icily and walked away with Murphy at her side. Clara started to follow but Greer held her back.

He had been in the middle of the battle that the two women had been waging over the years. He knew why the war had started and he was determined that the hostilities would end, but he was hindered in his efforts by a secret that he had sworn he would keep.

Chapter 3

Catherine strode through the main entrance to the hospital. Exhaustion had caused her to fall into uneasy sleep at the motel and now it was nearly noon. The person at the information desk kept trying to get Catherine’s attention, but she didn’t have time to stop or even acknowledge the exasperated woman, as she eyed an open elevator door and sprinted forward just as it began to close.

Catherine exited on a floor with the all too familiar sign and arrow pointing towards the ‘Intensive Care Unit.’ She made her way down the corridor and glanced into the waiting area. The plastic chairs looked exactly the same as the ones that had been there years before and so did the couch, well sort of a couch. It was constructed out of laminated ply board and weird industrial strength fabric cushions stuffed with a stiff material that could withstand hundreds, maybe thousands of butts, without giving an inch. Rounding out the room there was a matching coffee and end table set, made from the same laminated ply board as the couch, and a television hung from suspended cabling in the corner. The one thing that wasn’t there was her sister, so Catherine proceeded directly to the electric doors that led to the inner sanctum of the unit where she found Brigit standing outside one of the rooms.

Catherine and her older sister looked like polar opposites. Catherine had straight black hair and blue eyes, her mother always said they were azure; Brigit had wavy warm red hair and dark brown eyes, currently contorted by anxiety.

When Brigit saw her little sister she wrapped Catherine in her arms, and hugged her so hard Catherine’s heart started to beat in trepidation.

“How is he?” Catherine asked.

“It’s not good,” Brigit replied. “His heart has been badly damaged, but they’re trying to stabilize him.”

“I don’t understand this, after everything else, a heart attack. How the hell did this happen? I thought they had all of that under control.”

“Catherine, you need to calm down.”

Catherine looked through the window into the room where her father was lying on the mechanized hospital bed, his head slightly elevated. She could see the oxygen tubing at the base of his nose, and he appeared to be sleeping, despite the plethora of additional lines that attached him to various pieces of medical equipment on and around the bed.

“I just want to go in and see him,” Catherine whispered fighting to suppress her dread.

“I know, but he’s finally resting.”

“I’ll just sit there I won’t wake him up,” she pleaded.

“I don’t think…”

Before Brigit could finish the rest of her thought, the doors to the unit opened and two people came sweeping in. One of the people at the nurse’s station, strategically placed in the middle of the horseshoe of patient rooms, came around and met them.

“You’ll have to wait outside,” the nurse informed Brigit who nodded and began leading her sister out of the area and into the austere waiting room.

“How was the drive?” Brigit asked.

Catherine shrugged.

“You look…” Brigit didn’t finish.

“Like hell?”

“Don’t get so defensive.”

“I’m not defensive, I’m worried.”

Brigit nodded. “Me, too.”

Catherine got up and went over to the entrance to the unit. She peered through the glass that bordered either side of the electric doors and waved to Brigit.

“I think they’re done,” Catherine said and stepped forward causing the doors to open. Brigit hurried to her side just as a sudden flurry of activity erupted in the direction of their father’s room. Catherine and Brigit rushed inside, but another nurse spotted them and cut them off before they could go any further.

“You have to stay outside,” the woman ordered. “Get the hell out of my way,” Catherine threatened, fear taking control, turning her eyes fierce, almost primal.

The nurse recoiled and Brigit grabbed Catherine by the arm. “Let them do their job,” she snapped as the nurse retreated and Brigit shoved Catherine past the electric doors that closed behind them.

Catherine reached out and began to pry her sister’s fingers away, but Brigit dug them in deeper.

“Leave go of me,” Catherine hissed.

“Catherine,” Brigit leaned in and whispered harshly, “if you don’t get control of yourself I will drag you out of here. Is that what you want?”

Catherine drew back and stared at her sister. “Don’t treat me like I’m ten years old.”

“Then don’t act like it.”

Catherine glared in defiance, but then turned and slumped against the wall. Time slid past as they waited until a woman and man finally emerged from the unit.

Brigit stepped towards them and said, “Doctors?” in a strange mix of formal greeting and questioning.

Catherine heard the words ‘I’m afraid that your father’ as the blood rushed to her head, causing such intense pressure that her head throbbed painfully and her ears plugged so that she could barely hear the litany of words that followed. The solemn looks, and the hand on Brigit’s shoulder, told her all she needed to know.

After the doctors walked away, Catherine forced herself away from the wall and a piercing pain griped her chest. She let out a wretched, guttural noise and started to sob.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Keitha gasped and grabbed the table in front of her to keep from falling off her stool. She held on tightly and lowered her head as the surge of emotion slowly ebbed from her body. She looked up into concerned eyes and realized that someone had a strong grip on her arms.

“Keitha, Keitha, can you hear me?”

There was something incongruous about the voice, which caused Keitha to look around the room where there were two rows of deep tables that held a collection of what appeared to be, random pieces of computer equipment. In fact, the conglomeration was the deliberate result of cannibalizing, retooling and redesigning the colony’s finite resources. Stools positioned at various locations along the length of the tables provided the archivists a place to sit while they retrieved data.

“Is something wrong?” she rasped.

Terran stared at her in disbelief before bellowing into her ear, “Is something wrong? Is something wrong!”

“Stop repeating what I just said damn it, and answer my question.”

“You want me to answer,” he paused and lowered his voice. “Fine, first you were absolutely motionless, then you started to tremble, and I haven’t been able to get you to say anything for the last ten minutes.”

He was so tense that she sat up straight, and began pulling her arms from side to side in an attempt to shake off his grasp.

“Let go of me, Terran,” she demanded.

He held her tight for a moment until he saw the look in her eyes. “I was just trying to help.”

“I always find being yelled at helpful.”

“I didn’t…you surprised me, that’s all,” he said self-consciously. “I didn’t realize you were…”

She held up a hand to stop his explanation and began to rise off the stool, until she felt light headed and sat back down. “Give me just a second.”

Terran waited, knowing that any comment or attempt to assist wasn't welcomed.

“What time is it?” Keitha asked, once the pounding in her head subsided.

Terran blinked. “Time? You want to know the time?”

“I need to know,” she stated, getting to her feet again.

“Just, wait, will you,” Terran protested and motioned to a boy standing on the other side of the room. “Go and see what time the clock says,” Terran instructed and the young man rushed out of the room.

Terran turned his attention back to Keitha. She was wiping her forehead with one of her hands and he detected a slight tremor. She quickly dropped the hand to her side.

“I need to know the time,” she reiterated.

Terran nodded and they waited in silence until the young man returned to report that the clock said half past twelve.

“Her father is dead,” Keitha announced.

Everyone else in the room, that had managed to remain silent and inconspicuous, collectively gasped. Terran, hearing the sadness in Keitha’s voice, was momentarily taken aback. There were only two emotions he had ever seen her express towards Catherine and her life: anger and irritation.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Keitha peered at him. Images and bits of conversation flashed through her mind as though she were witnessing the incident all over again, and although Keitha could still sense the woman’s pain, she no longer felt the intense grief as though it was her own.

“Yes, I’m sure her father is dead,” Keitha snapped angrily.

“I wasn’t doubting you.”

“Sure you weren’t,” she said snidely, before she heard the sound of someone crying and for the first time turned her focus to the other people in the room.

A few just stood in apparent disbelief, several others had tears in their eyes, the boy that had checked on the time and a young woman wept openly. It was as though they had heard the news of the death of someone in the colony, instead of the death of someone long ago, before any of them had been born, such was the power of Keitha’s words. She was a storyteller and the stories she told the colony about Catherine, her life and those in her life, were so vibrant that the people of the colony felt like they knew all of them. Terran often wondered how Keitha’s narratives could be so affecting while she herself remained impassive. "

The council needs to be informed,” Terran asserted, “but everyone will want to hear the telling.”

Keitha nodded her head and started looking around the room. “Where’s Murphy?”

No one responded.

“Where is he?” she demanded, looking directly at Terran.

“Phelan came by to take him for a walk, remember?” he replied calmly but motioned to the boy who again left the room. Keitha narrowed her eyes. She remembered Phelan coming by to take Murphy on a walk. The boy had acumen when it came to animals, but he needed to develop his skill, and Murphy was a fine teacher.

“Where is he now?” she menaced him, knowing that Murphy would have been aware of her agitation, and would have made his way back to her long before now.

Suddenly the dog burst into the room on a dead run, he splayed his feet to stop the forward momentum before running into Keitha. She smiled with relief, and knelt down as he began to sniff her all over to make sure no harm, physical or emotional, had come to her in his absence. Murphy took a step back and flattened his ears against his head, then turned and glowered at Terran.

“I’m all right,” she said, stoking his neck to help lessen his anxiety, but the dog refused to break off his glare.

Keitha looked up at Terran. “What did you do to him?” she hissed.

“You know I wouldn’t do anything to him,” Terran replied but then admitted, “When you started…all I did was have Thomas head Phelan off and ask him to take Murphy to the classroom.”

“You what?” Her anger made Murphy’s hackles rise.

“Keitha, you know how he gets. Look at him right now,” Terran pointed at the dog. “He wouldn’t have let me near you, and you would have hit your head on the floor if I hadn’t grabbed you.”

“You had no right.”

Before Terran could continue to defend his actions, Phelan ran into the room gasping for air. He saw Murphy and fell back against a wall and tried to talk, but all he could manage between gasps was, “He, he,” pointing at Murphy until finally Phelan blurted out, “He’s really mad.”

Keitha studied Phelan for a moment. “Really?” she inquired sarcastically.

Phelan sank to the floor.

“It was scary,” the boy said as he struggled with his breathing for another moment before a rush of words came pouring out. “Murphy was pacing back and forth like crazy. Me and Eddy and Brina were trying to calm him down, but he just wouldn’t and I couldn’t let him leave because…” He stole a glance at Terran. “Then all of a sudden he just burst past everyone, he knocked me down. I ran after him, but I lost him, but I knew where he was going.” He averted his eyes so he didn’t have to look directly at Keitha.

Keitha was disappointed in Phelan, but turned and bore a whole through Terran. “Don’t you ever instruct anyone to do anything to Murphy again.”

“You’re overreacting. Nothing happened to him.”

“It’s my fault when Murphy started acting weird I should have,” Phelan’s voice caught as he looked at the dog, “I’m sorry, I should have paid attention to you.”

Murphy went over to Phelan and nudged the boy’s hand with his nose. They stared at each other for a moment until a small smile crossed the boy’s face. Murphy returned to Keitha’s side and resumed staring down Terran.

“The council needs to be told that Catherine’s father died,” Terran uttered and left the room.

Murphy laid down on the floor and expelled a dissatisfied grunt as Keitha realized that everyone else had made a surreptitious exit. She sat back down on the stool.

“It’s very sad,” Phelan said quietly.

Keitha looked at him confused, “What is?”

“Catherine’s father,” he replied, startled by her question.

“Yes, of course it is,” she agreed, faintly discomfited by the boy’s obvious compassion, which she lacked. “Come on, Phelan, let’s get you to your classroom before I talk to the council.”

The boy rose from the floor and they exited into the tunnel system. At the entrance to the classroom, Phelan turned to Keitha and Murphy his eyes earnest. “Should I say anything?”

“Let’s wait until the council announces it to everyone.”

He nodded at her, stroked Murphy’s neck and went in.

Keitha turned and continued down the tunnel to the great room, a large cavernous space that could accommodate everyone in the colony with ease, but when it was just the council, the room seemed like an enormous empty place. The nine members of the council sat around an oval table with Terran standing to one side. As Keitha and Murphy entered the room, a man with a grey beard indicated a chair where she could take a seat. Murphy stayed by the entrance.

“The woman’s father died,” she stated bluntly. “I’m sure Terran already informed you.”

“You need to use her name,” Clara admonished.

“Catherine’s father died,” Keitha rephrased, but with the same brusqueness.

“Can you tell if this will affect her abilities?” the bearded man asked.

“It just happened. How could I possibly know how it might, or might not, affect her,” Keitha replied summarily dismissing the question.

“Her mother’s death affected her abilities,” he reminded her.

Keitha shrugged. “Not for long.”

“Nevertheless, young lady,” his voice grew impatient, “you need to be prepared.”

“For what, Donal? In case something happens that finally wakes her up? Breaks through her complacent, narrow minded, closed off…”

“Enough,” Clara boomed, locking eyes with Keitha. “This is an opportunity to actually connect with her, and you intend to waste it.”

“Well, Clara, why don’t you regale us all with how you connected with her after her twin sister died?” Keitha retorted coldly.

“How dare you!” A flush rose in Clara’s face.

“I dare because you failed.”

“Is that the best you can do?” Clara began laughing callously and rose from her chair. “Just remember, Keitha, I failed because I took a risk, you fail because you refuse to try.”

Keitha slid her chair forcefully backwards as she flew to her feet.

“Stop it, both of you,” Greer barked.

The two women stared at each other for a moment, but then both sat down.

“The rest of the colony needs to be told about Catherine’s father,” Greer said taking control. “Donal will call the meeting and the two of you will behave in a civil manner.”

During the meeting of the entire colony, as Keitha told of the death of Catherine’s father, people began to hold each other and weep. When she was done several of the council proposed a formal celebration to honor the man, but the final decision rested with everyone. None of the normal daily activities could be left undone, so preparations meant long days with little sleep, and yet, there was complete concurrence in favor of the idea. Clara suggested that the celebration be in conjunction with their summer solstice celebration, because the people of Catherine’s time had once set aside a day, close to the beginning of summer, to celebrate all fathers.

A murmur of agreement arose and the people immediately split into smaller groups, each with a specific task: most dealing with food preparations, that they were responsible for completing. Keitha was part of the group responsible for sweets, made only for formal celebrations. All of the other groups decided on their plans and left, while the half dozen people in her group had barely spoken a word to each other.

They were all pondering the significance of having a dual celebration and they knew that if the sweets failed to live up to expectations the day would be marred. Keitha did not feel that she had the right to speak first, since she had only been a member of the group for two years and still considered an apprentice. However, the longer the silence endured the more the other members turned to look at her.

Knowing that the repertoire was limited, she proceeded cautiously. “Does anyone have an idea what sweet would be appropriate?”

“I was hoping you could tell us what they had in Catherine’s time, something we could adapt,” a large formidable man stated and the others nodded in concurrence.

“I don’t know, Morris,” Keitha said reluctant to be the one to decide. “They had so much and our sweets aren’t really the same.”

“I know,” Morris stated undaunted, “but we’re pretty ingenious and I think this celebration needs something very special.”

“Yes, definitely,” a young woman enthusiastically concurred.

“Lily,” Keitha said rationally, “I know how talented you and Morris are with sweets, but shouldn’t we stick to something we know we can do well.”

“Keitha, you can’t look at it like that. Think of this as an opportunity for us to prepare an utterly unique treat for everyone. It will make the celebration unforgettable,” Lily’s voice bubbled with excitement.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” The physical exhaustion that had been plaguing Keitha was starting to invade her brain and Lilly’s unabashed perkiness was getting on her nerves.

“Please, tell us about their sweets,” Lilly prodded, her eyes sparkled with anticipation, “so we can make something wonderful.”

Keitha could see Lily’s infectious nature starting to infect the group so she gave in. “All right, all right.”

Keitha described items she had found in the archives, after hearing Catherine talk about desserts. Cakes, which required eggs, everyone shook their heads, eggs could not be wasted on sweets, and cookies had the same problem as cakes. Ice cream, all of their eyes grew wide as she described how to make the frozen dessert.

“You need to tell us about their ordinary desserts not the ones reserved for important celebrations,” Morris requested.

“These are their ordinary desserts,” Keitha replied quietly.

“Well…my…” Morris said flustered by the statement, but he recovered and continued undeterred. “There must be something we could use from that time.”

“Morris, it’s just not going to work.”

“Keitha, don’t give up so quickly. Think about it some more. Please,” Lily cajoled.

“Look, I’m telling you,” Keitha said feeling drained and irritated, but stopped when she saw the look of disappointment on the faces surrounding her. “All right, give me a minute.”

Lily smiled encouragingly at Keitha, who shut her eyes tightly to keep from screaming.

“They made pies.” Keitha’s eyes shot open.

“Pies?”

“They would make a dough, place it in the bottom of a dish,” Keitha used her hands to demonstrate the shape of the dish, “and then they would put some sort of blend of fruit and sweetener, or something else with sweetener on top of the dough. Then they topped the…filling with another piece of dough,” she explained.

“And that’s it?” Morris pressed.

“That’s how they’re made,” Keitha said and saw the group brighten. “But they’re baked.” There was a collective groan. The ovens would be in high demand and there would be a strictly enforced time limit.

“How long do they have to bake,” Morris asked.

“I have no idea.”

“If we use something in the center, a fruit, that doesn’t need to bake we could bake the bottom and top separately and fairly quickly,” Morris said, not willing to give up.

“If you say so,” Keitha responded in admiration, “you’re the expert.”

“What about currents?” Lily asked.

“It would take too many,” Morris noted.

“What about grapes?” Lily proposed.

“Grape pie?” Keitha questioned with a wince. “I don’t know if they made grape pie.”

“Well, what would you suggest,” Lily said defensively.

Although Keitha found Lily to be overly gregarious, she did not intend to impugn her skill with sweets. “If anyone can make a grape pie work it would be you and Morris.”

Lily smiled at the complement. “What else did they use besides fruit?” she asked brightly, her hurt feelings completely vanquished.

“Actually they had sweet potato pies and some other vegetable pies,” Keitha stated. “But I think they used eggs in the vegetable pies,” she reluctantly added.

There was another collective groan. “Wait, wait,” Lily asserted, “they didn’t use eggs with fruit.” She looked to Keitha for confirmation.

“No, at least not that I recall.”

“So what says we have to use them with a vegetable? We can adapt.” She looked at Morris, her eyes sparkling. “We’ll adapt.”

Keitha watched as the rest of the group wholeheartedly concurred and marveled at how contagious Lily could be.

Morris, as the senior and most gifted member of the group, assigned each person a task before turning to Keitha. “You’ll ask George for the needed amount of the sweet plant?”

George was the head grower for the colony. His knowledge of horticulture and agronomy, combined with an uncanny amount of common sense and ingenuity resulted in many more successes than failures over the years. Although a marvel when it came to plants, George was brusque and easily irritated by people requesting special allocations, even for celebrations. The difficulty for their group was further complicated because the sweet plant that Morris referred, the moniker had been bestowed upon long ago by the children and adopted by nearly everyone else, was in trouble. The last of the older plants were showing increasing signs of stress at the same time George was losing a higher and higher percentage of yearling and second year plants. If the current crop of year old plants continued the downward rate of survival then there was a very good probability that the seeds of the older parent plants were no longer viable. The most promise George had seen were with the cuttings, but if it turned out to be a systemic problem, or if a mutation had occurred, there would be little that anyone could do to prevent the inevitable.

“George knows the request is coming,” Keitha said. “I saw him at the back of the room when I made the announcement. He gave me one of his ‘don’t you dare’ looks, but he’ll give it to us,” she stated with certainty.

After everyone left, Morris asked Keitha, “How can you be so sure? I would expect him to be more difficult than in the past.”

“Probably, but there’s no point in not providing us with some small portion, after all this could be the last dessert we’ll ever be able to make.”

The look that passed between her and Morris was so grave that he instinctively reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder in a comforting gesture. Keitha patted it, but moved away from him. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

Chapter 4

Henry woke up and rolled over. He could tell she wasn’t in bed even before he opened his eyes. “Please let her be watching the TV,” he implored, getting up. He found her upstairs in the spare bedroom, she was searching for something he knew she would not find.

“Catherine?” he questioned gently.

She turned toward him, but there was no recognition in her eyes.

“Catherine,” Henry repeated, slightly louder, but his tone remained tender.

She looked away from him and then, as though she had forgotten something, she turned back. “I’m looking…” but her voice drifted away.

“It’s all right,” Henry reassured her, but his heart ached because he knew what she would say next.

“He was here. I felt him.” She grimaced in frustration.

“Catherine,” Henry held her by her shoulders, “he isn’t here.”

“You don’t know that,” she snapped.

“I know this has been tearing you up for over two months.”

“I know how long it’s been.” She yanked away from him. “You don’t think I know when he died?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“You think I’ve been imagining this,” her voice caught and she waved her hand around. “You think it’s just grief, or stress, or wishful thinking. Pick one or pick them all,” she said tightly.

“That’s not fair, Catherine. I’m just worried about you.”

“Maybe you should be, maybe you should be.” She shook her head, collapsing on the edge of the spare bed. He sat next to her and wrapped his arms around her as she buried her head in his chest.

As he held Catherine he realized that she wasn’t crying, even though he had seen the tears forming in her eyes. Tears were just a bodily reaction to sorrow, pain, joy; even an allergic reaction could bring on tears. The sound that accompanied the tears was what defined their cause, but Henry could hear no sound at all. He had thought that nothing could be worse than the horrible agonizing sound that escaped her when she was unable to control her grief, but this was far worse. He could feel her body shuddering, could feel the tears against his bare skin, but no sound, not even a muffled sob or gasp of breath seeped out of her, and it began to unnerve him.

Ever since they returned home after her father’s funeral Catherine’s sense of humor and purpose seemed to be gone. She went through each day on autopilot, everything that needed to get done, got done, but without heart or spirit. He knew better than to suggest medication or therapy, but he worried about her depression worsening, and as he sat on the bed with her crying, but not crying, he began to panic, failing to notice that she was staring at him with concern.

“Henry, are you all right? You’re very pale,” she said, stroking his forehead with the back of her hand.

“Am I all right? Am I all right?” he repeated, stunned. “Catherine, you weren’t making a sound. Not a sound, but you were crying.”

“You thought I was cracking up.”

He looked at her face. Her skin was blotchy from the tears, her eyelids had puffed up, as though she was actually having an allergic reaction, and the whites of her eyes were bloodshot, but there was a dim brightness. Henry hadn’t seen anything except pain, anxiety or dullness in her eyes for what seemed like forever, and he was afraid his mind was playing a trick on him. He looked at her intently, it was a duller version of the twinkle and flame that he had seen time and again, but the light was definitely there.

“No,” he hugged her, “I thought I might be.”

“You’re a loon,” Catherine murmured softly.

Henry smiled at her, but his voice was serious, “Catherine, that was…well, it scared the behomies out of me.”

“They’re behemies, not behomies, if you’re talking about the same thing that I get scared out of.”

“The point is you really scared me.”

“Sorry,” she tried to smile. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He nodded his head in relief. “I know.”

They sat in silence until Henry quietly asked, “Something changed, didn’t it?”

She looked around the room and her eyes began to glisten with tears again. She flicked her hand at her eyes in annoyance and cleared her throat. “The feeling isn’t as strong. I’m not going to get to say goodbye.”

“Maybe you already have,” he said, trying to comfort her.

“No, I didn’t get to,” she swallowed, “but I need to…stop trying...” She made a noise that sounded like a gurgle and a sigh.

He took her hand in his and his trembled.

The sensation jolted her. “God, Henry, I’m sorry, this is not what you signed up for, when we got married? I mean, it’s just too bizarre.”

“It’s not like I haven’t seen this before,” he stated, thinking back to the very first time. It was eight months after they had started seeing each other and shortly after they finally began spending the night together. Not that they hadn’t made love before that, but she always seemed to plan everything so that either he or she had plenty of time to go home. At first he thought he was being paranoid, but after several months he finally asked her why she never wanted to spend the entire night with him. She shrugged it off, saying she felt more comfortable in her own bed. It was a feeble excuse since Henry actually felt more comfortable at her townhouse than at his pathetic apartment, which he had barely furnished since his divorce five years earlier, but he didn’t push her. After several more months went by Catherine finally asked him to stay the night.

Nothing happened for a couple of weeks but then Henry woke up alone in the bed. He found Catherine crouched at the top of the stairway staring down into her living room. He asked her what she was doing and she placed a finger over her lips and retreated into the bedroom and, in utter confusion, he asked her what was going on.

“Lower your voice or they’ll hear you,” she whispered adamantly.

“Who’ll hear me?” Henry whispered back, his heart racing at the prospect of intruders.

“Brigit and Barry.”

He stared at her blankly until the names finally registered. “Your sister and brother-in-law?” he asked, not at all sure he understood her correctly.

“Brigit and Barry are downstairs,” she replied. “Something is wrong.”

She sounded so certain that Henry began to wonder if they had arrived at the house in the middle of the night without his knowledge. He told her to stay where she was, and he left the bedroom, carefully making his way down the stairs until he had a clear view of the entire living room. No one was there, and when he returned to the bedroom, Catherine was asleep. Henry finally felt like he understood all the months that she had not wanted him to spend the night with her, she walked in her sleep. The next day, Catherine was unusually agitated, but before Henry could broach the subject of her ‘sleep-walking’ the phone rang. It was Catherine’s sister Brigit. Barry’s nephew had been killed in a motorcycle accident. Henry’s concept of the world started to change.

“I signed up for a life with you,” Henry continued, angered by her assumption that this was a situation he couldn’t handle. “You don’t get to decide what’s too bizarre for me.”

“My weird dreams are one thing but…”

“But nothing, Catherine, I’m not a shrinking violet. You told me what happened—”

“Being told isn’t the same thing.” “No it isn’t,” he admitted and cleared his throat. “How long did it go on after your mother died?”

“Awhile.”

“Awhile?”

She shrugged.

“Don’t do that, Catherine. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you when you got back here…all by yourself.”

“You make it sound…I wasn’t frightened. I could just feel her in my apartment. It was a comforting feeling, actually and I just wanted to find her,” she waved her hand around, “sort of like now.” Then as an afterthought she said, “It did kind of mess with my sleep.”

“Kind of?”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry this is messing with your sleep. I don’t think it’s going to last much longer,” she said her voice tinged with regret.

“It doesn’t matter, Catherine.”

“Please,” she admonition him.

“Sleep is the least of my concerns.”

“If this kept going on and on, you’d be singing a different tune.”

“Like when Maria died,” he said, daring to raise the subject.

Catherine stared at him without responding. Her fraternal twin sister had died when they were fifteen. Catherine was the uncoordinated scrawny sister more at home with a book than a ball, and yet it had been Maria, the natural athlete, that drowned. For years after Maria’s death, Catherine would make her way in the middle of the night to her twin’s bedroom, the one Maria moved into after Brigit went away to college. Catherine’s mother or father would find her in the room, awake but not awake, searching and calling Maria’s name.

The trips down the hall to her twin’s bedroom stopped when Catherine began to have unsettling dreams. She woke many times with the sensation that someone had been in the room, which she was convinced was Maria, back in the room they had shared for thirteen years, and it comforted her. There were nights when Catherine was sure that she caught a glimpse of a shape, a movement in the darkness, and as the dreams intensified, she attempted to reach out to Maria, until one night she bolted upright in bed with the clear knowledge that what was with her in her room was not her sister. She screamed, a horrible, tortured sound that pierced the night, causing her parents to burst into her room, in a confused panic.

The dreams, and the screaming, continued and Catherine’s parents, who decided she was having problems dealing with her grief, began to talk about sending her to a psychiatrist. Catherine, who had decided none of it was a manifestation of grief, devised her own means of stopping the dreams, and when the dreams stopped, the screaming stopped and so did any discussion of a psychiatrist.

“Are you…experiencing anything else?” Henry pressed.

“Experiencing?” Catherine repeated.

“You know what I mean.”

“You make it sound almost normal. I’m having an experience,” she fluttered her hand in the air, trying to make light of the situation.

“Just promise me you will tell me if anything out of the ordinary begins to happen.”

“You call this ordinary,” she quipped.

“Are you having the same type of dreams that you had when Maria died?” he asked directly.

Her eyes grew distant.

“Catherine?” Henry worried that he had pushed too hard.

“Did I ever tell you that I started having…odd dreams when I was around ten? Not all the time, mind you, just every once in a while,” her voice sounded distant.

“The same dreams you had…the ones that made you…”

“Scream,” she said impassively. “Yes and no. The dreams I had after Maria died were…more disturbing, obviously. I mean I never remember screaming as a child, I just remember how…unusual they seemed.”

“What do you mean unusual?”

“Not ordinary.”

“Not funny. What do you mean.”

“I was young, and you know how your imagination can be when you’re young.” She paused, waiting for Henry to acknowledge her precept, which he did not want to do, but relented with a slight nod so she would continue. “The dreams seemed almost…magical. I can still remember how I always felt captivated by what I was being shown.”

“Shown?” She furrowed her brow. “Sort of like standing in the wings of a theater watching a play. I wasn’t part of the production, the action, but I wasn’t part of the audience either because my perspective was more intimate.” She cocked her head to one side. “You know I never thought about it like that before.”

“Do you remember what you saw?”

“They were dreams, Henry, who remembers dreams.”

“Well most people don’t remember what they dreamt the night before, let alone thirty years later, but—”

“Hey, twenty-nine,” she corrected quickly trying to grin.

“So what else haven’t you told me?” he asked, in his own attempt at jest, but then he saw her eyes cloud. “Catherine?”

“I had a few dreams after my mom died…but sheer exhaustion and a glass of wine here and there…and presto.” She swiped her hands together, like a magician making something disappear, and then held them out to show him that nothing was there.

“Seriously, Catherine, were they the same dreams?” he questioned.

“You know, Henry, I really never wanted to think about them very much.”

He looked at her incredulously. “You?”

She scowled back at him but then gave up, too exhausted to keep up the pretense. “Oh, fine, if I had to describe them I would say that the ones after my mom died were jumbled, unfocused.” She paused for a moment. “It reminded me of this time I saw a group of children playing some game I didn’t recognize and this one child, who was massively over excited, rushed up to me and started explaining what was going on, but she just ended up tumbling over her words, and then she rushed back off so I never really did understand.” She looked pensive but then shook herself. “Anyway the point is, those dreams didn’t last very long.”

Henry, feeling encouraged by her revelations, made a mistake by asking, “What about the highway? Have you thought about that and how it might relate to everything else?”

Catherine’s face froze. “I’m going to bed.”

He grabbed her hand as she got up. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought that up.”

“No you shouldn’t have.”

“Just please, promise me you’ll tell me if you start to experience anything else.”

“Henry,” she warned. “Catherine, promise me.” He was not about to give in this time.

“There is not going to be anything to help with,” she stated emphatically but his intense gaze finally made her relinquish. “Fine, I promise.”

Chapter 5

Keitha succeeded in persuading George to give the dessert group some leaves from the sweet plant and the word soon spread throughout the colony that the celebration would include a special sweet.

The great room underwent a transformation for the occasion. The food was arranged on a long table in the center of the room, each dish surrounded by a decoration made by the children. The pies were on an elevated platform in the center of it all. Everyone circled the table making grand gestures, proclaiming the splendor of every plate or bowl of food. Most of the children just gazed in awe before complete silence fell over the gathering to allow each person a chance to reflect in their own way. Then, based upon long standing tradition, the eldest person in the colony walked up to the table with one of the youngest children and took the first portion of each dish, which the two would share. Groups of people followed in no particular order, while others stood patiently around the room conversing leisurely until it was their turn. As people ate there were more declarations about the superb taste of all of the food and, although no one had ever eaten a pie, all agreed that these pies had to be the best that had ever been prepared by anyone, ever.

After the last morsel of food was consumed the table was moved to the far wall, and everyone sat on the floor in concentric circles, an open space in the center. A group of young children entered the space and sang a song laced with images of oceans and rocky shorelines, things that no one had actually ever seen. Next came a short play, led by Lily, and after that a drum solo. Finally, Keitha stepped into the center. It was her responsibility to end each celebration with a story.

“I have something new to tell everyone, in honor of Catherine’s father,” she emphasized the woman’s name for the benefit of Clara.

Excited murmuring filled the room.

“I’ve been doing some research into Catherine’s ancestors. I verified all of the historical incidents through the records. However, the records did not always confirm that an exact person was present or involved in the specific incident, but another source did,” Keitha said, smiling enigmatically at Clara and then Terran. They both looked back at her perplexed.

“Before I start the story, I’d like to ask the students for a little help with some background information. Has anyone done any research on Ireland?”

“Skyler has,” Phelan spoke-up, excitedly. “She’s researching that whole group of countries, the ones that were located on those two islands…oh, you know the ones I mean.”

Keitha nodded.

A petite but forthright voice stated, “I started with Ireland but at one time all of the countries, including Ireland, were part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain.”

“But not always?” Keitha directed the question at the young girl standing next to Phelan.

“Not always and different groups invaded Ireland, but I’m sure you don’t want to go into all of that.”

“No,” Keitha concurred, pleased with the girl’s insight, “just some of the rule of England in Ireland.”

“Yeah, that’s why I had to research England. Not everything, I mean that could take a person forever.”

“I’m sure it might seem that way,” Keitha remarked trying not to grin. “Can you summarize what happened under Henry the Second and Henry the Eighth, regarding religion and then the penal laws?”

The young girl drew herself up to her full height, which brought the top of her head up to Phelan’s elbow. “Henry the Second, you see they had to number the kings and queens because they reused the same name for a different person, I’m not sure why, there were plenty of good names. Anyway, the Celtic Church…that was the church of the native Irish people once they stopped worshiping gods and goddesses, it was basically the same as the Catholic Church, but I guess it wasn’t the same enough. The pope, this man in Rome, Italy who headed up the Catholic Church gave Henry the Second the go ahead to invade Ireland to bring the Celtic Church in line with the Catholic Church. Oh yeah, pope was a title, the same as king or queen, and names were reused for them too. So anyway, the Celtic Church ended up…ending and the Catholic Church became the religion of the native Irish.”

“When was this?” Keitha asked.

“Around 1150 through about 1180 something. That’s when Henry the Second was king. Henry the Eighth was from the beginning of the 1500s to about the middle, so around 1550. He was married, wanted a divorce so he could marry another woman, got into a fight with the pope over it…not the same pope as before,” Skyler noted. “I guess that’s obvious…anyway Henry the Eighth ended up starting his own church and tells everyone, including the Irish, that they need to change to his church. Except everyone didn’t change, so laws, called penal laws, were enacted that favored the new religion and made it more difficult for the people who didn’t change to do ordinary things. The penal laws in Ireland became really harsh after people loyal to this guy who had been king of England, and was Catholic, lost to people who supported the reigning king and queen…another, really bizarre story…but not for now,” Skyler noted when she saw the look on Keitha’s face. “So after the final the penal laws went into place. The Irish Catholics couldn’t teach or run schools in Ireland, but they also couldn’t go somewhere else and be educated, they couldn’t buy or lease land or practice law, they couldn’t be involved in politics and eventually lost the right to vote. There was a bunch of them enacted between 1691s and into the early 1700s.”

“Thank you, Skyler. That was exactly what I was looking for.”

The young girl blushed, but acknowledged the compliment with a tilt of her head.

“The reason I asked for that brief background is because Catherine’s ancestors were impacted by the penal laws,”

Keitha explained. “Her fraternal ancestors lived in the rural southern region of the Ireland, and like the vast majority of the people on the island, they were Catholic and farmed the land they lived on. Some of them actually owned a moderate amount of land. Under the penal laws, however, Catholics could no longer buy land, and what land they already owned had to be equally inherited by all male children. The result was smaller and smaller parcels for each successive generation until finally there just wasn’t enough land to support a family. Most Catholics ended up selling to Protestant landowners and either left Ireland, moved within Ireland to try and find other work, or stayed on the land becoming tenant farmers working for the landowner.”

“The primary crop that was farmed was the potato which had a very important role in Irish history. The potato was not a native plant but did extremely well in the soil and in the climate. So much so that by the 1700s the potato had become a staple in the diet of the rural people in Ireland, and as we know it is never a good thing to rely on just one crop because if something happens, it can be devastating.”

“Between the end of 1739 and lasting into 1741 there was a sharp change in the mild winters that had been the norm for Ireland and other European countries. In Ireland the bitter cold caused the potatoes to freeze, making them inedible, they couldn’t even be used as seed for the next growing season. Adding to the crisis was a drought, which occurred in the spring of 1740, decimating the wheat and barley crops as well as herds of sheep and cattle. The people in the rural areas began to starve and many fled to the more populated cities seeking food.”

“Keitha?” Donal inquired uncertainly. “I’m no Skyler, but I thought the Irish Potato Famine was in the 1840s.”

Keitha saw Phelan unsuccessfully try to tousle Skyler’s hair, as the girl deftly dodged away, as she answered, “You are correct Donal, the Great Irish Potato Famine, as it was called, did occur in the 1840s but this was an earlier famine. The Irish referred to the worst part of it as ‘the year of the slaughter’ because of the number of people that died, and the failure of the potato crop wasn’t the only crisis that the dramatic shift in the climate caused. The coal trade, a chief fuel, was affected because the harbors froze so shipments couldn’t dock and the coal yards in the country also froze; water that powered mill-wheels froze disrupting grain processing and other industry; the cost of food soared which led to food riots; as living conditions worsened diseases like dysentery, small pox, and typhus spread.”

“Before the famine, there were fifty-three members of Catherine’s fraternal family still living on tenant farms in southern Ireland; after the famine their number was thirty-one. The official documentation of the number of deaths wasn’t very accurate at the time, but historians, who attempted to piece together information, estimated the total number of deaths throughout Ireland was somewhere between 300,000 and 500,000. The fractious political response during it all led to economic turmoil, and it took a very long time for Ireland to recover. By 1845 the potato crop was the primary diet of the rural poor, when and it was ravaged once again by a fungus that caused the potatoes to blacken and rot in the ground.”

“Why would they go back to the same diet?” George asked disheartened. “Didn’t they learn?”

“They really didn’t have options. Crops that yielded more money for the landlords were sold or shipped out of Ireland. The same happened with the livestock. Potatoes were easy to grow, people didn’t need a lot of land to grow them, and they were rich in nutrients.”

Keitha was now ready to begin the telling.

Catherine’s fraternal great-great grandfather, Brian, was a descendant of the people who had once owned their land. By the beginning of the 1830s, however, his father and uncles were having an increasingly difficult time paying the rent on the tenant farms that were owned by a landlord. Brian, who loved the land and the animals more than any of his brothers, was the youngest son and had to leave the southeast countryside to search for work to help his family. On the Beara Peninsula, in an area called the Allihies in southwest Ireland, he found work in the copper mines. Brian persevered despite the harsh conditions and punishing work, but his heart never stopped longing for the open country where he had grown up.

When the potato blight hit the mines were not immune to the impacts of the resulting famine, but the reports from the farm country were devastating. Brian wanted to return to his family, but before he could leave his father sent word with a cousin that Brian should stay at the mines. A year later Brian learned that his father, mother and the rest of his immediate family had all perished from dysentery.

Brian finally married in 1850 and died in 1860. His eldest son, Thomas, began working in the mines to support his mother and younger brother. In 1864 the younger brother joined Thomas in the mines, but when their mother died in 1869, the younger brother left Ireland to find work in the copper mines in the American state of Michigan.

Thomas had a wife and three sons and could not afford the passage, the cost, for all of them to sail to America, so he continued to work in the Allihies mines. In 1881, after the mines closed, he took his family back to the farmland where his uncle, who had no family of his own, gladly took them in. It was there that Thomas’s fourth and youngest son, Catherine’s fraternal grandfather Michael, was born in 1884.

Michael worked with his father and brothers on land, which in the aftermath of the famine, the landlord converted from growing crops into raising sheep. Thomas’s younger brother, the one who had gone to America, sent money to pay for the passage of one of Thomas’s sons, his eldest who went to work in the Michigan copper mines alongside his uncle. The oldest son then provided passage money for the second son, and that son provided for the third son. When Thomas died in 1896 Michael’s brothers sent passage money so that he and his mother could join them in America, but his mother refused to leave Ireland. Michael stayed with her until her death in 1909, when he finally left for America. Michael stayed a short time in Michigan, before deciding to strike out on his own for the copper mines in Butte, Montana.

Catherine’s other fraternal great-great grandfather William barely was able to scratch out an existence on his tenant farm when the Great Famine hit destroying his meager crop of potatoes. The grain crops, which he tended for the absentee landlord and which were not affected by the fungus, were exported to England. The following year William’s potatoes again rotted in the ground and again the oats and barley were taken to the Irish ports for shipment out of Ireland. His family was starving and he owed back rent to the landlord, so William left the farm to find a job under the public works program designed by the English to provide a means for the Irish to earn money to buy food during the crisis. William returned to his family in the spring of 1847 after enduring a winter of blizzards while trying to build a stone road.

Keitha paused to highlight an unusual similarity. “As I said the Irish winters were normally mild, yet in the midst of this crisis another unusually harsh winter occurred.”

William told his family that the bizarre winter weather compounded other problems. It did not take long for the workers to realize that the road that they were working on would not connect to any existing road. It was a road from nowhere to nowhere, although the senseless nature of the work was baffling, they kept building in order to earn money that they all badly needed. Yet, many times they found their wages delayed or barely enough to pay the inflated price of corn for a single person, let alone a family. People began to faint from weakness along the road, and then they began to die where they fell.

Unable to pay the back rent to the landlord, William and his family were evicted from their home in 1848. Desperate, he decided to take his family to a city. Waterford, he was told, was overflowing with people fleeing the conditions in the rural areas, so William took his family to Enniscorthy, but found that city struggling under the crush of the starving poor. Even the workhouses were turning people away and William had no idea what to do next.

Keitha looked around the room, “I should explain that workhouses were imposed on the people of Ireland before the Great Famine, purportedly to take care of completely destitute people, but the conditions in the workhouses were harsh. Families could not stay together once they entered. The women and the men worked for the food they received, and a place to sleep, in buildings that were perpetually damp. Because of the conditions, the workhouses were normally only half full, but not during the Great Famine.”

William’s wife told him to go search for his brother Daniel. Daniel was William’s oldest brother who left the family’s tenant farm in 1840, to seek work in the mines in Wexford County, over forty miles north of Enniscorthy. No one had received word from Daniel since the winter of 1846, and they believed he perished in the mines. William told his wife it would be futile for him to venture so far, especially when she seemed so frail. He would go after she felt better but she insisted, and when he saw the anguished look in her eyes, he relented. William set out on foot the next day and against all odds, two week later, he found his brother in the town of Avoca. Daniel was shocked to find out that not only did his family think he was dead but the money he had been sending for years never reached them. William returned to Enniscorthy for his family but by the time he arrived his wife and their twin sons were gravely ill and died shortly after from dysentery. He returned to Avoca with his oldest son to work in the mines with his brother Daniel.

Daniel, whose one abiding dream had been to learn how to read and write, found himself working with an older man who had been a hedgemaster. Daniel and William’s family had been too poor to afford a hedgemaster’s fee when they were growing up but now Daniel was able to pay the man he worked with to teach him to read and write and Daniel in turn taught William’s son.

“A hedgemaster was a person who taught the Irish Catholic children when it was illegal under the penal laws to have Catholic schools. They were sort of renegade teachers, breaking the law but educating children, as the penal laws on education were repealed hedgemasters found themselves without jobs, and had to look elsewhere, like the mines,” Keitha explained.

William’s son married late in life and had only one child, a daughter named Molly, Catherine’s grandmother. She was born in 1891, when her father was forty-seven years old. He died eight years later. Molly’s mother, who was much younger, re-married and in quick succession gave birth to four more children. She died of respiratory failure shortly after the last child was born.

Molly dutifully took care of the younger children and her stepfather until she turned sixteen, when he informed her that it was time for her to marry him. Molly refused so he quickly married another woman and ordered Molly to leave his house. He openly berated her to anyone that would listen, saying how out of kindness and respect for Molly’s dead mother he had offered to wed the girl, even though she was lazy and dimwitted and what thanks did he get? She spit in his eye, said she was too good for him. It was all horrible lies by a vindictive man who wanted nothing more than to see Molly begging on the streets, and for that, he needed to make sure that no other man in Wexford County would even consider marrying her. He underestimated Molly’s tenacity. She was hardworking, resilient and, what her stepfather never knew, because her mother had kept it a secret until the day she died, Molly’s father had taught her to read and write.

Molly left Wexford County with two precious belongings that she had kept hidden from her stepfather. A journal, that contained the stories that her father had read to her every night while he was alive, stories committed to paper by her great uncle Daniel about their family and heritage, and a small box. The key to the box was on a chain around her neck, had been since the night her father died and laid it, and the box, in her hand. Molly’s father told her that Daniel had given him the box, and he was passing it on to her. The one condition was that the box couldn’t be opened unless she truly was in need. Mere hardship wasn’t enough, she was strong enough to get through hardship, and he hoped she would never need to open the box, but if she did she was to use whatever was inside wisely.

Molly made her way to the city of Waterford and then to the city of Cork, and found work as a cleaning woman in some of the most appalling places, but even that work became so intermittent that the meager amount of money she was able to make was barely enough to feed her every other day. The night before she faced eviction from her small shabby room, the likelihood of ending up on the streets just as her stepfather had wanted, loomed in front of her. She comforted herself that night by reading the journal from beginning to the end. As Molly absently flipped past a blank page that she always thought was the end, she was surprised to see additional writing that was not in her great uncle’s hand. It was her father’s, and his words made her feel like he was sitting in the room next to her. She began to cry. At the end of his entries there was another blank page, she hesitated but felt compelled to turn past it, and found herself staring at more writing, by a decidedly feminine hand.

As Molly read, she realized that it was her mother’s writing. Her mother had been such an unassuming woman, meek even, especially around her stepfather, and Molly never knew that her father had also taught her to read and write. Molly read about the deep despair and longing her mother felt after Molly’s father died, and then the tough, deliberate words of a woman determined to make a good life for her small daughter. The final entries described her mother’s years with her stepfather and Molly began to cry again, for her mother and out of guilt for not knowing how much her mother had sacrificed. She stared blurry eyed at the blank page at the end of her mother’s entries knowing there could be no more; there was no one else. Yet she once again felt compelled to turn the page. Her breath caught as she saw her own hand on the page, she shook her head and looked up at the tattered ceiling, when she looked back down the page was empty.

Molly fell into a fitful sleep that night and woke with a start staring around her room. She swore she had heard her father’s voice. Her eyes were wide with dread but when her heart finally slowed she found herself repeating the words, ‘you’ll know.’ She got out of bed, taking the box from its hiding place, and walked over to the one dingy window that was letting in a little moonlight. Molly touched the key around her neck, and with trembling fingers tried to open the clasp on the chain but failed, not once but three times. She cried out in desperation yanking the chain over her head but could only stare at the box. Was she really in need or only weak? Her father had never found it necessary to open the box and here she was ready to after only a year on her own. She started to slide the chain back around her neck when she heard, ‘it’s time.’ This time Molly knew it was her father’s voice and the sense of dread returned to her, only to be quelled by a calm, reassuring feeling that her father imparted to her whenever she felt afraid as a child.

Molly stared down at her palm, which bore the imprint of the key that she had been clutching in her hand. She took the key, opened the box, and stared, stupefied at the sight of money, sure that at any moment it would all vanish and she would wake up. No matter how many times she shut her eyes, the money was still there when she opened them, until finally she saw a slip of paper. She took it out and read the simple note that her great-uncle had written, ‘for a better life’ and wept for the third time that night. There was more than enough for passage to America, something she had never allowed herself to hope for, and wondered why her father hadn’t used the money himself. Then she remembered; he never opened the box. He saved it for her, as if he knew.

She left Ireland on her eighteenth birthday, in 1909 and when she got to America she used the remaining money to travel from New York City to a town out in the western part of America, one that her father had told her about when she was little, Butte Montana.

“Catherine’s fraternal grandparents married in 1915. Catherine’s father was born in 1925, their third son, whom they named after Molly’s great uncle.” Keitha finished and a hand went up.

“You found all of this in the historical records?” Eddy asked amazed.

“As I said when I began, I verified all of the historical information through the records, but the specific information about Catherine’s ancestors came from a different source.”

“What source?” “The journal,” Keitha stated triumphantly. “I found it, at least part of it.”

The room was stunned into an eerie silence.

“There aren’t any paper documents,” Terran stated. “And even if there were—”

Keitha cut him off. “Someone at some time transcribed the handwritten journal onto a computer. It was brought here, I found it, even though it was stored in the oddest location. I could just as easily have missed it entirely.”

“What did you mean, part of it?” Greer asked.

“The last entries were from Molly and Catherine’s mother. There were no entries by Catherine.”

“Let’s not make this into a hunt for an enigmatic second journal,” Clara advised. “The logical explanation is that she never had the journal.”

“Catherine had the journal, Clara,” Keitha said with certainty.

“You don’t know that.” Before Keitha could counter, Greer intervened. “You said Catherine’s mother made entries?”

“She did,” Keitha nodded, ignoring Clara, “about her ancestors, but I think people are too tired to hear that story today.”

There was a sudden surge of enthusiastic voices, “Please, Keitha, tell us, tell us.”

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