by Anne B. Cole
“You want Gretta to go where?” Sam began, not wanting her to go anywhere.
“You may go, too. Two can learn more than one. I must warn you. Times were different back then. Gretta, you may feel safer with Sam.”
He glared at Roxana’s obvious ploy.
“I’m fine. You don’t have to go.” Gretta insisted. Sam shot her a concerned look. “My grandmother is ill. She gave me the ring, and she won’t live much longer.”
“Gretta’s correct. Lucy’s time is near. The PIT is not a pleasant place. I need to break the curse as soon as possible.”
Sam saw not only fear but stubborn determination in Gretta’s eyes. Her choice was made. He nodded toward their bodies. “What happens to us, the real us, if we go back in time?”
“Like I said, time is different here. It wavers between the present and the past, enabling me to return you to within a minute of when your energy left your body if that is what you want.” The smirk returned.
Sam knew what he wanted and what he needed to do were never the same. If time really can stand still, Pop can wait. “What do we do?” he asked.
Roxana’s smile disappeared as a dark mist enveloped the bottom of her dress. “Oh dear, my time here is shorter than I expected.” More mist swirled around her. “Well, never mind. Gretta, your soul will be entwined within Anya, a sixteen-year-old girl in Milos in 1829. Sam, you will be entwined within my brother, Lorenzo. He was nineteen. Learn as much as possible about the ring. Do not attempt to change the past. Lorenzo and Anya are in control, though you’ll have limited power to guide their thoughts and actions.”
A thick fog now engulfed Roxana. “Concentrate on the people you will be with. To return to me you both need to have the desire to come back, focus on yourselves, and then—”
Roxana’s voice dissipated within the fog.
Gretta stared where Roxana had stood. “And then?”
Sam shook his head, trying to conceal his own fear. “Do you think this is real?”
“She knew about my grandmother.” Gretta studied the ring on her finger before looking up. Confusion filled her expression.
Sam nodded, watching her fidget. He followed her gaze to their bodies under the tree.
“Thanks.” Gretta’s angelic voice cut the silent air. For a moment, he marveled at the proximity of the tree trunk to their bodies. “It was only a matter of time. I tripped more than once on my run today.” He glanced at her knee; not a trace of her earlier mishap remained.
“Three times.” Sam couldn’t help himself.
Gretta’s face reddened. “I’m not usually that clumsy.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll catch you next time.”
“I’m quite certain there won’t be a next time,” she spouted, sitting next to the tree. Like a puppy, Sam followed. “When do you think we will travel to the past?” Her tone changed from feisty independence to nervousness, perhaps fear.
“I don’t think Roxana’s concept of time is the same as ours.” Without thinking, he touched her cheek. Even though he was convinced this was a dream, he hesitated at his next move. His desire for her burned throughout his body. Thoughts of taking her into his arms and tearing her clothes off ran through his mind.
“Sam!” Gretta lurched back as if she read his thoughts. He braced himself, but instead of getting slapped, she apologized. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. You were so still. I thought you were gone.”
“Just thinking.” Sam gripped his hands together, resisting the urge to push her up against the tree trunk and kiss her.
“About what?” she winced. “Sorry, I don’t mean to pry. I rarely talk to people I don’t know. This is weird. I just met you, yet it feels like I’ve known you for years. Maybe time here is different. Maybe I should stop talking?”
“No, you’re good. I was thinking about my mom.” The words slipped out unintentionally, allowing the hurt to return. “She died a year ago today.”
“I’m so sorry.” Gretta leaned a little closer. Even through his jeans, her bare thigh felt cold against his. He shifted toward her.
Snap! The sudden sound broke the silence. They jumped away from the trunk to see what caused it. Nothing moved. Sam scanned to where Slappy and Hank were standing, stone still. Tony remained in mid stride, running toward them. He possessively blocked Gretta’s view of his very good-looking friend.
A loud pop sounded. Sam realized a large limb above their bodies was ready to crush them. “How slow is time, and what does ‘wavering into the past’ mean?”
“I don’t know, but that big branch over our heads . . .”
Beautiful and perceptive. Sam shook off yet another arousal and then moved to their bodies. He tried to touch the left shoulder of his body, but his hand moved right through to the ground. Gretta also tried, melting her hand through, as well. They really were energy.
“When we get back . . . get back to our bodies, we have to roll or slide to the right about a foot or two. Otherwise—”
“I get the picture,” Gretta replied, without letting Sam finish.
Sam tried to pick up a large rock to wedge under the branch, but found he could barely move it. Frustrated, he watched Gretta tap the tree lightly. With the third tap, her entire hand disappeared into the trunk.
“How’d you do that?” Sam demanded.
Like a child caught in the cookie jar, Gretta yanked her hand out. “I’m not sure,” she mumbled, placing a foot on the trunk.
“Get down. You’ll crush us.”
“Don’t be silly. Time is still or nearly still,” Gretta chided, leaping on top of the trunk in one step. To Sam’s horror, she bounced up and down several times. The tree didn’t budge. She elegantly stepped to the ground, gave him a sly look, and then strolled right through the trunk to the other side.
“That’s impossible.” Sam ran his hand over the solid tree.
“Think about it. Our real bodies are over there, yet whatever we are, well, we’re here. That makes us not really real.” Gretta tilted her head. “You try.”
Sam shrugged, walking closer to her. This was definitely a dream, and he was wasting time. He placed his hands on her shoulders, unsure of how she would react.
“You feel real to me.” He felt icy hands on his waist, then peered down to be sure her hands didn’t go through him.
“You feel real, too.” Gretta leaned closer, then pushed hard on his abdomen.
“Rock hard,” he stated proudly. To his surprise, she pushed again. “Trying to knock me down?”
“I’m trying to pass through you.” Groaning, she plopped herself on the ground and leaned against the tree trunk.
“Okay. You can walk through solid trees, but you cannot go through me. I guess that makes me—”
“Invisible,” Gretta whispered.
“I’m not sure about invincible, incredible maybe.”
She scrambled to her feet, holding her fingers out to him. “Invisible! Look at my fingers.”
Sam took her hands. The ends of her fingers were gone. He attempted to touch them where they should have been, but nothing was there.
“Your feet, it is happening to your feet,” Gretta cried.
His work boots had vanished up to the laces. “Stay close,” Sam whispered.
“We have to want to come back, focus on ourselves and then what?” Gretta’s eyes pleaded with fear.
“You’re Anya right?” Sam blurted.
“Yes.” She stepped closer. Their extremities continued to disappear.
“Who am I? Larry? Alfredo? Something weird like that.” Sam touched her cold arm, then pinched his own, hard. Unable to wake, the dream scenario lost credibility.
“You’re Lorenzo. What if we get separated?”
“Learn everything you can about that ring
. I’ll get us back,” Sam’s voice faltered.
“You’re right. We can do this.” Gretta stared at her ring. Sam took her face into his invisible hands, somehow lifting her chin.
“Focus, think about sixteen-year-old Anya. I’m nineteen-year-old Loren.”
“Lorenzo,” Gretta corrected in frustration.
“Lorenzo.”
Another branch cracked in the distance, causing them both to look at their bodies.
“Take care.” Sam brushed invisible lips against her cheek before disappearing completely.
Chapter 3
Sam Entwined Within Lorenzo
Pain surged through Lorenzo’s body like storm waves hitting shore. He wavered in and out of consciousness. Whatever happened, he could not recall. This was definitely not a dream. Lorenzo hoped that whoever he had walloped was in worse shape, although such a state was quite possibly unimaginable.
Taking in air became excruciatingly painful. The breath he managed didn’t relieve his need for oxygen. Broken ribs, not daggers, poked his insides. He was no longer fighting. His head slipped off a moldy sack, thudding onto dank floorboards. Cold metal bars pressed against his face when the floor shifted. The stench of salty brine and urine filled his nostrils.
“About time you woke up,” A man’s voice chuckled softly. Lorenzo heard the rip of his right pant leg. “I apologize in advance, mate.”
His numb leg sprang to life as liquid splashed on his right thigh. Pain sizzled into a wound that felt as if it sliced completely through his leg. The burning escalated to an unbearable level. Lorenzo groaned as a flask met his lips. He sucked down as much as possible. It didn’t matter that he preferred whiskey, the rum tasted wonderful.
“Easy, mate. That’s all Jozef could squander from the captain’s stash.”
Lorenzo unsuccessfully attempted to open his eyes before easing back against the smelly sack. Rum. That’s what got him into this mess. Squeezing his ribs together with his arms, he dragged himself upright, smacking his head on a beam overhead. Lorenzo again attempted to open his eyes but saw nothing but stars. He heard the man next to him grumble, “Stupid American.”
After some time had passed, he found it possible to open his left eye. Through black iron bars, he spotted stacked barrels, net covered crates, coils of frayed rope, and the bottom of a rickety staircase. He was a prisoner in the hold of a ship.
Sunlight filtered through the deck, illuminating a small area outside of the cell. At his knees crouched his cellmate, a man of about thirty, whose hands were bound together with rope. He appeared asleep with his right bare foot stuck out through the bars and a tarnished flask nestled in his lap.
Lorenzo’s mouth watered. He gathered strength, leaning on one hand with the other clutching his ribs. The flask beckoned him. Apart from the missing shoe and a bruise under his left eye, the man appeared to be in decent shape. Inching closer, Lorenzo gingerly let go of his ribs. Shaky fingers touched the edge of the flask.
“Sorry, mate.” His cellmate’s eyes snapped open, then narrowed. “You won’t be stealing from the man who saved your sorry arse.”
Lorenzo fell back to the putrid sack. His next breath lodged in his chest as if he had inhaled water. He struggled to exhale. Nothing came out but a raspy wheeze.
“Sit up,” the man demanded.
Lorenzo attempted but couldn’t lift his head. “Come on, sailor.” A grimy hand pushed him onto his side, then whacked him on the back, causing him to cough up bloody phlegm, which he spat through the bars. “Breathe, damn it.”
Lorenzo felt the remnants of his shirt being torn off and then wound around his chest. The man tied it tight, crunching ribs together. Lorenzo prayed for unconsciousness. Two hands squeezed his cheeks until his mouth and even the eye that was swollen shut opened.
“Breathe, or I’ll kill you.”
Lorenzo was not sure which frightened him more—imminent death or the look in the man’s eye. He took in a shallow breath as the cell spun. With the next breath, he felt the other pant leg being torn off and wrapped even tighter around his chest. Air began to enter into his battered lungs. The flask met his parched lips. Lorenzo sucked down the last drop.
“Stay with me. I’m not wasting good rum on a dead man,” the man muttered.
Leaning against the back wall, Lorenzo nodded his thanks, rubbing encrusted blood off his chin.
“My name’s Peter. I don’t suppose you can talk much, so listen.” He shifted his ample body in their cramped space. “I’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this for a long time, and now you’re here to help.” Peter’s eyes darted excitedly, then rested upon Lorenzo’s. “We’re going to mutiny.”
Lorenzo glared in disbelief.
“Jozef and I need you to tip the odds in our favor. You’re tough, not so bright, but you can hang with the best fighters.” Peter grinned.
Lorenzo attempted to pry his eye open wider so he could get a better look at the fool next to him.
“Sorry, mate. When I saw you stealing Lubber’s stash, I had no choice but to rat you out so you’d be captured.” Peter’s eyes danced.
The pieces began to fall into place. Lorenzo’s United States naval ship, the Warren, docked in Mykonos for two days to reload drinking water and supplies. Lorenzo had passed an open crate of rum that had been sitting on the dock beside a questionable ship. He figured by the time the owners realized two bottles were missing he would be long gone within the safety of the Warren. Feeling cocky, he stepped off the dock and headed toward the village. Five men approached. Pirates. That was his last memory.
Lorenzo started to get up and cracked his head on the low ceiling again. Peter roared with laughter, then silenced when footsteps thumped across the deck above. “Your stupidity is rubbing off on me.” His eyes lowered to the gash in Lorenzo’s thigh. “Lubber got you there. What’s your name, boy?”
“Lorenzo.” He didn’t have a chance to give his last name.
“Play dead, Enzo. Here comes Old Benny.”
Heavy footsteps thudded closer, then stopped. An oar slammed against the bars, inches from Lorenzo’s face. He gripped the bar in an effort to not flinch.
Peter mumbled a few words in Greek to Old Benny. The pirate grunted back. Peter continued apprehensively. Old Benny replied by spitting on Lorenzo’s face. Holding his breath to keep from vomiting, he allowed the spittle to run down his cheek.
Lorenzo’s swollen face concealed the fact that he was studying the pirate. Old Benny wore mismatched clothing and a dingy white turban. From his dark, weathered skin, he determined Old Benny was definitely old but appeared as strong as he was ugly. His muscled arms were covered with either black hair or a thick layer of filth. The Ottoman pirate stood about five nine. His tattered turban gave him another few inches. Old Benny was fierce, magnificent, and terrifying all at the same time. Peter had added another sentence in Greek before Old Benny stomped up the stairs, growling.
“He’s gone,” Peter whispered.
The sound of more footsteps turned their attention toward the darkened stairway that Old Benny had ascended seconds ago. Peter smiled, “Jozef.” A pirate of medium height and build with tanned, leathery skin approached their cell. Unlike Old Benny, he was of European descent.
“What’s your name?” Jozef demanded in English laced with a Greek accent. His weathered face and sinewy arms showed years of being a sailor.
“Taylor, Lorenzo Taylor.”
“Mend fast, Taylor.” Jozef turned to Peter. “Plans changed. We’re headed to Kimolos. Lubber is paranoid the Americans are following us. Going to Serifos is too risky. The plan is to hide in Kimolos and wait for the next slave sale in Rhodes.”
Peter raised his brow in concern. “The boy won’t survive being dragged around the island.”
“I’ll have command of the ship
before we reach Kimolos,” Jozef declared arrogantly as he cut Peter’s binds, then turned his attention to Lorenzo. “Can you stand, boy?”
Doubt crept on Peter’s face. Lorenzo paused and took in as much air as possible before answering, “Get me out of here.”
“That’s my boy,” Peter announced, rubbing his freed wrists.
“I need your word that you will back us,” Jozef sneered.
“Aye,” Peter chimed. “What do you say, Enzo?”
“What’s in it for me?”
There was a moment of silence before Peter burst out in laughter. Jozef’s icy glare quieted him.
“You want to live?” Jozef hissed inches from his face.
Lorenzo’s stomach churned. Rum inched up his throat. Peter stifled another chuckle as he heaved.
“Jozef, we need this mate. Tell him about Lubber’s book,” Peter encouraged.
The pirate glared at Peter, then poked a finger at Lorenzo. “If you come through for us you will be paid well. If you don’t, you will die.”
Lorenzo searched Jozef’s face for weakness, seeing only a proud, determined man. He needed to be seen as the same, not a weak fool.
“I give you my word. But if you don’t pay me well,” he glared at Peter then back to Jozef before finishing, “you both will die.”
“You have my word,” Jozef stated with believable intent, offering his hand.
“And you have mine.” Lorenzo gripped his hand.
“Gentlemen, I do believe we have ourselves a deal,” Peter declared as Jozef reached for a key hanging on a rusty nail. He scanned the stairs nervously and then turned the key inside the lock. Peter tore the chain off and scrambled out. He was much shorter than Lorenzo expected. His round face matched his even rounder body.
“With Jozef on the inside, he will let us know when to strike. We have the numbers since you took out three of the crew on Mykonos. I’ll take on Old Benny. Jozef will deal with Lubber. You’ll take care of the remaining deck hands.”
