1 7 7 7 . a

Every evening Lucia awoke unrested and seeking the language weather forecast of the day, some conditions before Christ, some only a few hundred years old and several fashioned in the last twenty years, piped with hula hoop ideologies in candy cane sentiment.

She had for years counted on her dowsing rod to allay her fears and urge her steps deeper and deeper into the treasures that awaited the soul, until the midnight of March 19th 1777.

The prior day Lucia had been sunbathing nude at Brubacher’s Isle when all of a sudden the sun shifted from east to west along with various sky dwellers whose names she’d forgotten. Were it not for the misplaced shadows and formation of ice on her lips she would not have realized the shift at all.

Jumping up from the sand she grabbed her rod and ran into the nearest cave. Brubacher’s had been uninhabited ever since she arrived, a hundred years prior so the cave and its surroundings were silent. Looking neither left nor right she ran until she tired, finally resting her back against the cave wall. After a moment she held out the rod for direction. Usually it would point her right or left.

This time it pointed behind her to the surface of the wall she was resting on. Lucia turned to look but couldn’t see what was on the surface so pulled out her iPhone that had been taped to her rod and turned on the flashlight.

To be continued…