Time for the Lost

by Chess Desalls

  “Maybe everyone’s gone home to their families for the night.” Tori traced her steps back toward the house, suddenly fearful of getting lost. Twenty minutes later, convinced that she’d taken a wrong turn, she untied the sweater from her waist and pulled it over her flannel shirt. Her teeth chattered as light from the last rays of sun faded. Well, it’s finally getting spooky, I guess.

  Tori squinted. “Maybe if I find a light,” she mumbled, “that will give me a hint as to the direction of the house.”

  The path she was on now roughened with each step. Before long, the walkway became overgrown with weeds and crabgrass. This can’t be right. She looked back over her shoulder. There was no light from the direction from which she’d come, but at least the path was smoother. Surely it would lead to a better route.

  She stepped to the right, ready to turn around, when a twinkle of light stung her eye. She blinked, certain that the twinkle had been in the direction she’d already been walking. As she stepped back around, her eyes focused on the source of the light. It came from somewhere farther away, beyond the overgrown path.

  Tori quickened her pace. The light glowed more brightly—appeared larger—as she neared its unknown source.

  She stopped, breathless, before a lantern. It hung from a pole and creaked as it swayed in the wind. Looking more closely, she noticed that the lantern was made of metal and glass. Electric, maybe? Automatic with a light sensor? She was certain that her grandmother wouldn’t have a solitary light in the middle of her property. It made no sense. She sighed, wishing she’d found a porch light instead.

  As quickly as she’d feared that she’d become lost, she was enveloped by a calming presence, as if someone else was there. But the grounds were empty and quiet, echoing the darkness. No one was there, no one she could see.

  “Impossible,” she whispered. It must be a ghost. “Hello?” she called out, “Is anyone there?”

  Tori could almost hear her goose bumps forming in the silence.

  Well, there’s no one here, and this light isn’t helping me find the house. She turned to go back in the direction she’d come. Back to the Better Route plan. When she turned, the light glowed brighter. She looked back, shielding her eyes. “Did you do that, Lantern?”

  The light dimmed.

  Her shoulders tensed. She dragged one foot along the ground, slowly, as if she planned to turn back again.

  Gently, the light brightened.

  She frowned. Her hands balled into fists. “I don’t know what’s going on here. But if someone’s playing games with me, that someone’s going to get it. Halloween’s just a few days away, and I have a few tricks up my sleeve too. Don’t think I won’t use them,” she said, her voice pinched.

  The light dimmed.

  “Ugh.” Tori rolled her eyes at herself. Maybe it’s a faulty bulb? I must look like a complete idiot. Regardless, she closed her eyes as she turned around—the whole way this time. She took a few large steps before opening them again.

  Light from the lantern behind her flashed on and off. Repeatedly, as if panicked. Each pulse of light casted a yellow-orange glow across the fog that had spread out in front of her.

  Unsure of what was happening and too terrified to scream, Tori bolted along the path, away from the lantern and the light.

  Three mugs of hot chocolate and a pile of blankets weren’t enough to chase away the chills.

  “Tori, baby, tell us what happened.”

  “Like I said, I got lost. It was stupid.” She wrapped her arms more tightly around her knees.

  “But you’re still shivering, hon. Did you run into anyone out there?” Tori’s mother hovered, wide-eyed with fear. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, heightening the effect. “Someone didn’t hurt you or touch you, did they?”

  “No, nothing like that. I’m fine, nothing’s molested or broken. Really, Mom. I just—I was out there for too long and it took me a while to get back. No one hurt me. Grandma’s property—it’s a lot bigger than I thought. I should have turned around sooner.”

  “Okay, baby, it sounds like you had quite the scare. I won’t make you relive it over again.”

  Tori grasped her mother’s hand where it lightly rubbed her shoulder. “Thanks, Mom. Love you.”

  “Love you too, baby. I’m going up to bed now. You sure you’re going to be all right?”

  “Yes, I’ll be up soon. I’ll just clean this up for Grandma, and then I’ll try to get some sleep.”

  After setting aside the blankets and folding them into tidy squares, Tori headed to the kitchen with her mug. She dipped it in warm, soapy water to dissolve the worst of the sticky chocolate. Squinting, she looked out the window before loading the mug into the dishwasher.

  It was dark outside, but there was a fleck of light that looked out of place. Tori shook her head, trying to rid the image from her mind, but she couldn’t help wondering whether it was Lantern. From the safety of the kitchen, the light didn’t look so bad; it looked lonely.

  “Sleep,” she grumped. “That’s all I need right now. The question is whether or not I’ll get any.”

  Tori glanced out the window one last time before turning away to get ready for bed.

  She fell asleep that night, not knowing that after she’d left the kitchen, the light in the distance flashed on and off repeatedly before it burned out.

  “Queen of the Small Seas” by Chess Desalls

  A baby from an enchanted island gets stolen by pirates. Sixteen years later, she discovers that the ruffians who’d raised her hadn’t been the first to take her away from her family and the life she was meant to lead.

  Excerpt from “Queen of the Small Seas”

  Glimmers of light emphasized the creases of a crone’s forehead as she passed a wand back and forth along the figure of a baby. The child thrashed and cooed and then closed her eyes.

  “Sleep now, young one. You will be needed once the king falls.”

  The crone scooped the baby with withered hands, her nails black with gore. Caught in the middle of her task of bleeding fowl, she hadn’t washed. The nursemaid’s call demanded priority.

  “I can’t believe a woman of Queen Isra’s strength died during childbirth,” said the nurse. She slumped on a chair carved from a tree stump.

  The crone mashed her lips together over toothless gums. “It’s as common as a father rejecting the birth of a daughter, eh?” With the baby wedged in one arm, she tore open a sack of flour. A spray of powder mushroomed from the bag. “How many years does King Ezrek have left?”

  The nurse sneezed and swatted at the cloud with her handkerchief. “I have no way of knowing.”

  “Then I shall modify the enchantment.”

  With the gentleness of a mother tucking her child in at night, the crone began to slide the baby inside the sack. Tongues of flame flickered from candles crowding the room, casting a yellow-orange glow on the newborn’s skin as she disappeared into the sack.

  “Queen Isra chose a name for a male child,” said the nurse. She yawned, lulled by the dance of candlelight. “What do we call her?”

  The crone dipped a finger in a basin of fowl’s blood. With the tip of her nail, she scribbled a word across the baby’s forehead.

  “Maya,” the nurse read, crumpling her nose.

  Without wiping her hands, the crone picked up her wand and swirled it above the flour sack. “Maya, child, it will be easier if you stay this size. As you age, you’ll develop into a lovely young woman. But you must hide.”

  With a flip of the wand, the edges of the sack the crone had torn began to reseal.

  “And you must stay small.” The bag closed further.

  The crone flicked the wand one last time, sealing the baby inside. “Until we’re ready for your return.”

  “Are you sure,” said the nurse, “that this is the wisest choice?”

  “There is no other choice.”

  Inside the bag, the baby twitched.

  A tiny hand rubbed an eye and th
en smeared blood from the left edge of her forehead, blotting out a single letter. Unknown to the crone or the nurse, the baby settled into a deep slumber with the marking on her forehead forever changed.

  Sixteen Years Later

  The point of May’s needle glistened in the sun before sideswiping to the left and missing the nose of her opponent. Her pupils shrank to pinpoints, enhancing iris-colored irises. Nostrils flared.

  “Dare ye dodge again, Scallywag?”

  May grabbed a fistful of curls and crushed them back inside her headscarf. She sucked in a breath, backed up three steps, and charged again.

  Scallywag, unarmed, twitched his whiskers.

  “Rogue! Devil! Rascal!” She advanced with each insult. Yet the darting of her feet across the ship’s planks made no discernable sound.

  The whip of her needle went unnoticed by the men who passed alongside and above the dueling pair. No one looked on, except a parrot—orange and gold, hook-billed, and slightly larger than May. The parrot lowered his head and then shook it back and forth.

  May ignored him as she continued her assault. “This will be th’ last time ye board this ship, ye moochin’ Bilge Rat!”

  “I’m not certain he appreciated the pun,” said the parrot.

  “I found ’im eatin’ our provisions, Swig. That’s all the food we have until the next pillagin’.” May gritted her teeth as she backed her opponent into a corner. “Feed the fish, ye will!”

  The rat’s ears twitched. It wrapped his tail around its face to cover its eyes.

  “See, now you’ve scared him. You weren’t this vicious when I first found you.”

  “Swig! Not that ol’ fairytale again. Who d’ye think believes such flotsam?”

  “Anybody who’s set eyes on you, dear.”

  May squared her shoulders and lunged at the rat. “Arr!”

  Swig cringed at the squeal that ensued. He averted his eyes from the slaughter, remembering the night he’d found a baby inside a sack of flour plundered from Sprite Island. That day, sixteen years earlier, Swig began believing in fairytales.

  May had changed over the years, as any woman would, except that she wasn’t of a regular size. Her proportions were ordinary; her sixteen-year-old body was thin, rounded, and fair. But she was no taller than she’d been as a baby. At only nine inches high, May had been the smallest newborn Swig had ever seen. The girl was as delicate as a doll but more vicious than a rabid raccoon.

  Swig blamed the pirates.

  “Ahoy, May!” A leather boot crashed down alongside the girl, swiftly enough to crush her. “Ye caught another one, have ye? That’s me girl. Th’ ship’s finest huntress.”

  The compliment tingled May from headscarf to boot heels. His girl. Her cheeks flamed as she tried not to stare too long at the familiar smirk, accented by a scar to the left of his lower lip.

  Swig rolled his eyes. “This is not a proper place for a lady, Daniel. You’ve taught her to cuss, to fight—” His feathers ruffled as he glanced at the rat’s carcass. “You’ve turned her into a killer.”

  Daniel’s grin widened. He tightened his tail of dark locks. Like May, he wore a headscarf, knee breeches, and a shirt belted with leather. “Captain raised us together. En’t that so, May?” He bent down and opened his hand.

  May stepped up onto his palm. “Aye, he did.”

  “If ye have a problem with that, Swig, best ye speak to th’ captain.”

  “Will your leader officiate the wedding as well? Or is May free to choose as she pleases?”

  Daniel’s eyes bugged out. The laugh that followed bounced May up and down. She held out her arms for balance. She wanted to laugh with him, but she was too busy trying not to fall.

  “Flotsam, Swig! I can’t marry her.”

  Every drop of the pint of blood in May’s body turned to ice.

  “And why not?”

  “She’s barely half the size of me forearm. A man needs a relationship—of th’ physical kind.” With a wink and a snigger, he added “Imposs—”

  Daniel jumped, shouting curses of flotsam, jetsam, scabs, and dung. His hand flew up, bloodied and throbbing with pain.

  May fell from the pirate’s hand to the floor, her landing softened by a wing of orange feathers. She scowled at Daniel as he stomped off, leaving her insulted and unarmed.

  “Forget him,” said Swig. “And the needle.”

  “Wrapped in the Past” by Chess Desalls

  Shirlyn Hall travels back in time to ancient Persia, where she meets the three magi who follow the Star of Bethlehem. After a mishap threatens to send her ride home without her, the youngest of the magi exhibits a hidden talent that leaves an impression on his elders and on Shirlyn’s heart. But his silhouette will forget they ever met, unless she leaves a reminder that comes with a heavy price.

  Spend the holidays Edgar style and gain new insights into Shirlyn’s character.

  Excerpt from “Wrapped in the Past”

  Prologue

  Ancient Persia

  Tailed like a comet, the star glows under the heavens. Its rays flicker in all directions, like an angel dancing as he pours light down to the earth. I press on, unable to resist the pull of the star. Its brilliance reaches out to me, drawing me forward, beckoning me to follow.

  I wipe sweat from my brow. The desert air parches my lips, and my eyes water from the sting of sand.

  “Balthazar, come. Rest with us.” My companion’s voice is ragged. He is an old man and likely thirsty.

  My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, but I want to continue our journey. Lifting my chin, I urge my mount forward and focus on the star. Its light fills the heavens, even now during the daytime while the sun bakes my head wrappings.

  “Balthazar?”

  Exhaling sharply, I halt my mount and turn around. I lower my gaze out of respect for the aged because, according to custom, their years make them wiser. Thin tornadoes of sand swirl across the legs of two camels identical to mine. I relax a moment before raising my eyes. Caspar tugs at his beard. Dust shakes loose from its white strands. He watches me, clearly waiting for a response.

  “As you wish,” I say. “But we must not stay long. Resting makes it difficult to resume travel.”

  A grunt provides the comfort of agreement, not from Caspar but from a third companion who is in the process of dismounting his camel. He leans back as the animal falls to its front knees. His weight shifts forward as the haunches of the beast drop, raising a cloud of sand and dust before the man’s feet touch the ground.

  “Thank you, Melchior,” I say, swaying to balance myself as I prod my mount to allow me to descend in a similar fashion.

  “We’ll inspect our animals and gifts and then rest until the sun sets.”

  I frown at the delay. Are they not as compelled by the pull of the star as I am? Are they not as stricken by its beauty?

  Melchior shrugs. Like Caspar, he is my elder, only not quite as old. There are streaks of gray in his beard, but his hair is brown. His dark eyes bore into mine. “There is no use trying to outpace the star.” He points a finger at the sky. “We follow where it leads. This is not a race, my son.”

  I lower my head and try not to be insulted by his tone. “Very well.” Truly, in terms of years, I could be his son. Of the three magi, I am the youngest, and it is an honor to accompany these men. But I wish to be their equal. I am an astrologer, not their apprentice, but a mage like them; and I am as capable in my methods as they are in theirs.

  Still, I hope that I may gain from their wisdom. So, I listen to them and bear their condescension. I sip from a canteen, careful to save some for later in our journey, as I inspect the trappings draped across my camel. A parcel of cloth holds my gift to welcome the child. I don’t need to open it to know that the myrrh is safely nestled inside. Through the cloth, nuggets of resin give off a sweet, woody scent that reminds me of my homeland.

  After smoothing my hand over the parcel one last time, I sit with Caspar and Melchior who rest on the deser
t floor in silence. While waiting for the sun to set, I study the dunes that lay ahead, between us and the star. We will trail its light through the desert to Judea where we predict it will rest. The Star of Bethlehem.

  Chapter 1

  Twentieth-Century England

  Mona did fine work of decorating this year’s Christmas tree. Electric bulbs shaped like bells and pinecones shine red, orange, and green. Tinsel and silver ornaments reflect light from the nearest bulbs. The boughs of the tree taper upward, reaching so high that the angel perched on top has a bent halo.

  Flames from the fireplace warm the air, spreading the scent of pine throughout the room. The window to my left showcases snowflakes large enough that I can make out their individual patterns from my seat on the floor.

  Before me, underneath the tree, are packages wrapped with paper tied with ribbon. But none of the gifts are for Mother, Father, or me. I know this because I’ve checked the tags on all the packages. Twice. The long box that rattles when I shake it is for Mona. It’s probably filled with chocolates similar to the ones overflowing my stocking. The other tags name family friends who won’t visit with us until Near Year’s Day.

  I sit back against my palms and wonder what it all means, finally concluding that this year’s gifts must be too large to fit on or underneath the tree. It wouldn’t surprise me. Father is known for his strange ideas. He’s of the mindset that managing property is not enough of a productive use of his time, which I gather is why he’s an inventor—one who’s thoroughly obsessed with traveling through time.

  As I continue to wait for Father and Mother to join me for Christmas morning, I find it impossible to keep my hands and feet still. My fingers itch to recheck the packages a third time. It’s as if my hands and brain are disconnected and refuse to share previously recorded information. Once I get that under control by sitting on my hands and curling my legs underneath me, my nose begins to twitch. Tickles and tingles spread through my nostrils until I’m forced to release my hands once more.