Wrapped in the Past

by Chess Desalls

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Travel Glasses preview

  WRAPPED IN THE PAST

  Chess Desalls

  Copyright © 2015 by Czidor Lore, LLC

  ISBN: 978-0-9971227-4-9

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  First Edition: 2015

  Czidor Lore, LLC

  Wrapped In the Past is a work of fiction. The characters, historical references, and events portrayed are used in a fictitious manner and are the products of the author’s imaginings.

  Cover art by Paper and Sage Design

  Edited by Pam Elise Harris

  To readers. You are a gift.

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to Pam Elise Harris for editing this work. I’m grateful to readers who loved Edgar in Travel Glasses. He inspired “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 desert 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.

  After sniffling and rubbing away the itch with my handkerchief, my hand brushes across the locket I wear attached to a chain around my neck. I smooth a thumb across the outside of it. It is round and silver, and the size of a pocket watch. My parents gave it to me earlier in the year for my fifteenth birthday. When I press the knob at its side, the front panel springs open, causing warmth to spread across my cheeks. Mother inserted a photograph—a portrait of me—inside the back frame. I haven’t found anyone special enough whose photograph I might use to replace it yet.

  Snapping the locket shut, I look up at the sound of approaching footsteps. Father walks into the room with Mother on his arm.

  “Shirlyn.” Mother clucks her tongue at me. “Why are you on the floor, dear? Sit with us where it’s more comfortable. To think of all that time I spent remodeling this room with the latest fashion in furniture.”

  Father winks behind his eyeglasses. “For now,” he says. “Your mother will redecorate as appropriate well before we enter the nineteen-forties.”

  Mother sighs as she extends her hand, which I grudgingly a
ccept. I look around the room as I rise, paying close attention to Mother’s improvements should she ask my opinion on the subject later. The sofas are deep-seated with rounded armrests, all covered in fabric better suited for hanging across the windows. Their matching cushions are flat and square. None of it looks comfortable.

  I politely sit at the edge of one of the sofas and look up at Mother. Her blond hair is pinned up in the back and waved at the edges so it resembles a curly bob. Fur lines the collar of her dress. She smiles at me, her warm, spiced hazel eyes glowing.

  I tug at my jumper and smooth out my skirt, feeling underdressed compared to Mother. Yet, even with our differences in clothing, I am her doppelganger. For me, looking at her is like looking at a mirror into the future. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Surely it’s quite strange for her to look at me as well, a living reminder of times past.

  “Well now,” Father says. He swats back an untidy lock of brown hair. “I expect you’re wondering why there are no gifts for us underneath the tree.”

  His words make my lips pucker. I avoid looking at the tree and try not to appear guilty. Surely I’ve returned all the packages to the right places. Father winks again and turns. Instead of heading for the Christmas tree, he stops in front of a cabinet situated to the right of the fireplace. He opens both drawers. I crane my neck as he pulls at something.

  Finally, he turns back around. His lips are set in a hopeful grin, and his arms are filled with bolts of fabric that are worn and ancient. “Happy Christmas, my dears.”

  My nose begins to twitch all over again. For our gifts this year, Father appears to be offering Mother and me a pile of old blankets.

  Chapter 2

  Mother smiles as if the blankets are delightful. “Edgar, how thoughtful.” She sounds like she couldn’t have imagined a better present. I squint my eyes in her direction. Perhaps she’s in on the prank.

  Father’s lips stretch wider and then fade altogether when his eyes meet mine. “I hoped you’d be more excited, Shirlyn. I wanted to surprise you.”

  I draw in a breath. Father thinks in puzzles, and sometimes he presents ideas in the same manner; that’s part of his charm.

  “Of course, thank you.” I force a smile. “In that case, you’ve succeeded. But what are we supposed to do with a pile of blankets?”

  “Why, get in character, of course! These are not blankets, Shirlyn—they’re robes. I’m taking both of you on a trip to the past.”

  Mother clasps her hands together. “I can hardly stand the excitement. Where will we be traveling?” Her smile fades when Father sets the robes down on one of the new sofa cushions.

  Oblivious to Mother’s concern, Father folds his hands behind his back and paces, the way he does when he’s about to make an important announcement. “Together, we will visit the first Christmas. I’m particularly interested in observing the three magi along their route to Bethlehem.”

  Mother winces. “Why those particular men, dear?” Her voice has lost some of its holiday cheer.

  “Because they are learned men, wise men—astrologers.” He lifts his finger to point out the window, as if we’ll find a map there plotting out the points along their route. “This outing will be an educational opportunity for us as much as it will be for Shirlyn.” At our lack of enthusiasm, Father’s shoulders roll forward. “The magi were givers of gifts too. Frankincense, gold, and myrrh. I thought it a fitting destination for the holidays.”

  “I see.”

  “Elizabeth, are you disappointed?” Father glances at Mother over his glasses. The hurt in his eyes makes me want to comfort him instead of Mother who looks just as miserable.

  “Disappointed? No, dear. It’s just—”

  “An unexpected adventure,” I say. “What an unusual and interesting idea.” Undoubtedly more unusual than interesting. My left nostril quivers. I suspect this outing has something to do with Father’s work and obsessions. As much of a bore as I think it will be, I can’t help being somewhat curious. It is, after all, time travel.

  Mother fluffs the fur on the cuffs of her sleeves. “How soon do we leave?”

  “After breakfast.”

  “That soon?”

  “We won’t be gone long, so there’s no need for luggage.”

  Sighing, Mother rings a bell. Less than a minute later, Mona pops her head through the doorway. “Yes, my lady?”

  “Please call the driver to pick us up outside the main entrance. After we’ve had breakfast, the three of us will be going to the harbor.”

  “Very good, my lady.” Mona rounds her spindly body in a curt bow before leaving the room.

  ***

  During breakfast, I nibble at toast and butter, even though a full breakfast is served for Christmas Day. Something about today’s sausages turn my stomach, and I notice that Mother eats more daintily than usual. Meanwhile, Father chomps on eggs and swallows tea as if sustaining himself for an upcoming battle.

  “Father, how long do you expect us to be gone?”

  He swallows and wipes his lips on a napkin before answering. “I have no way of knowing how much time will pass here while we’re gone, but it won’t be difficult for us to figure out when we are upon our return.” He frowns when he looks at the half-eaten food on Mother’s plate. “We should take fruit and water with us—to keep ourselves hydrated in the desert.”

  “So, then it’s possible we won’t return until tomorrow?” I honestly hadn’t thought of that given Father’s proclamation that we wouldn’t be bringing luggage.

  “Don’t worry, dear. Should we find ourselves in need of anything, we’ll return home at once. I’ve traveled many times with little complication.”

  Father makes it all sound so simple. I don’t want to imagine what types of complications could happen on our trip, much less those Father isn’t adequately prepared for. Before leaving the table, I slip an orange inside my pocket for later, just in case.

  Chapter 3

  A light dusting of snow covers the ground. Hired hands sweep and shovel walkways that twist along patches of white. Blankets of fluff, soft as down, sit atop the hedges as well as the roofs of brick buildings that make up the Hall Estate. Both sides of the road are crisped with frost.

  I look back at the main house as our driver turns along the bend in the road that leads to the section of the harbor where Father keeps his motorized yacht. A light shines from my bedroom window. The house is gone, hidden behind trees, before I can confirm that my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me. Surely Mona will take care of the light, but I can’t help being bothered by my own carelessness.

  Just as I begin to wonder about whether or not someone else was in my room, Mother’s hand presses lightly against my arm. I flinch.

  “Whatever’s the matter, dear?”

  “Nothing,” I say. After mother crinkles an eyebrow at me, I whisper, “You were quiet at breakfast. What do you think of Father’s gift?”

  I catch Mother glancing at Father who sits up front with our driver—a strange place for a gentleman to sit when he’s not driving himself, but that’s Father. After noting that the men are in deep conversation, Mother answers me. “I only wish he’d filled me in on the secret. Had I known the destination sooner, I may have had time to object.”

  “So you knew we’d be traveling for Christmas?”

  “Yes, but your father wouldn’t tell me where, and he begged me to keep it a surprise. I can’t help wondering whether he’s after something for his work.”

  “I see. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but what part of this did he expect us to enjoy?”

  Mother shakes her head and pats my arm. “Perhaps each of us will need to pursue her own adventure.”

  Frowning, I turn to look out the window. We’re near the harbor. The yacht we’ll be using for time travel is out in the water, moored near Father’s favorite motorboat, the Pipette. The smaller vessel is white and tan. Mother doesn’t know it yet, but Father has been giving me private lessons on how to drive it.
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br />   Unlike the motorboat, the yacht is an authorized travel vehicle under license by the Time and Space Travel Agency, also known as the TSTA. I can’t say how it works; I just know that Father has been granted special permission to use it and that he wishes its origin to be kept secret.

  “Are we ready, my dear ladies?” says Father as our driver brakes. Without waiting for our response, Father exits the car and opens a door to let us out.

  My breath escapes my lips in clouds as I step onto the pier. The beaches are empty and quiet. I suspect that’s because everyone else is nestled inside their homes, before their fireplaces, unwrapping gifts like normal people.

  Before boarding the yacht, Father hands our driver a package. “Happy Christmas, Attwater,” he says.

  The driver tips his hat. “Happy Christmas to you, sir.”

  Mother, obviously troubled, boards the yacht first. Its exterior is chestnut brown with brass-colored trimmings. She and Father go directly to the wheelhouse with me following closely behind. The wheelhouse is where the controls and tools for driving the yacht are kept, including the boat wheel and compass. Father stands behind the wheel and stares out through windows that line the front and sides of the compartment. His smile is so extraordinary that I can’t help feeling a tingle of excitement bubble up from the depths of my previously anticipated boredom.

  That is, until I look down at the wheelhouse floor. My nose wrinkles at the pile of old blankets sitting there, which I suspect Father had someone deliver to the yacht during breakfast, so they’d be there for our arrival.

  Mother presses my shoulder as she acknowledges my frown. “The one on the top of the pile is the smallest, dear. Go on, put it on.”

  I pinch at the pile with my thumbs and forefingers, raising a length of fabric to sniff before committing to wrapping it over my head and body. Scents of spice and bark fill my nose. It’s a pleasant surprise. “Father, where did you get these robes?”