Lost to Earth: Book Three

Damn! What a quick death! "

The thought barely penetrates my brain as I was swirled around in hot blackness. My

lungs are burning from the lack of oxygen, while heat eats away my skin and bones. The

pyroclastic cloud from Vesuvius wrenched my soul from my body, and everything went silent.

"You don't believe in fairies!" A sing-song voice repeats from somewhere in the darkness.

A chill of foreboding runs through my incorporeal spine. Shit, not again!

My name's Jessa, and fairies tossed me to the past when I told my younger sister Meena,

"I don't believe in fairies."

Granted, I shouldn't have said those fated words on top of an Irish fairy hill during a solar

eclipse -but hey! How was I supposed to know magic and fairies did exist when we had

technology? Perhaps the solar eclipse was the extra added oomph for the over-sensitive pixies to

chuck my ass through time?

First, I landed in Ancient Troy, was married to a Trojan Prince, and then killed by the

legendary Achilles. Next, I fell in Ancient Pompeii right before the bitch Mount Vesuvius blasted

the pyroclastic cloud at my husband's descendant, Senator Brixtius, and me. At least I got to die

with my lover, and I saved his young daughter, Eurydice, in the process.

The singing kept getting louder and louder, and the wind kicks up. Just like the last time!

Hopefully, I don't land on my ass!

I am in a whirlwind; I shut my eyes while my body is spinning and spinning for what is

like forever until the wind stops. Dropping me -yep, you guessed it -right on my ass with the

wind knocked out of me.

2

My ears are ringing as I slowly sit up with my eyes still closed, and I place my head

between my legs because the world is turning. Bile is burning in the back of my throat, and I

stifle the urge to throw up by breathing in crisp, clean air. I discovered from my last two trips that

this technique helps the world stop whirling. Where am I now!?

"You there! Page! Get up!" A distinctively male voice yells.

OH NO!!!

I open my eyes and immediately glance down at my clothing.

My last two trips through time landed me in a wine cellar and a whorehouse. Hopefully, I

was lucky this time around!

I was wearing woolen brown-colored pants and a thick green tunic falling past my knees.

The rough fabric was scratching my skin. My shoes are soft leather, and I'm sitting on a pile of

hay. The temperature is much colder here, wherever here is, than in the last two places. Troy and

Pompeii were warm Mediterranean cities.

The light in this place is heavily shadowed, but I discern a lot of wooden framework with

leather bridles hanging on pegs, and there is a whinny behind me. The scent of hay mixed with

horse dung and the stomping of hooves on the stone floor is a dead giveaway. I landed in a barn.

Yes!

"Page! Get up. NOW!" The voice shouts again. I glance around, and scowling down at

me is an old man on a horse. Oh, shit! He's speaking to me! The stranger is wearing chain mail

and a tunic with an image on the front of the shirt I can hardly make out. The angle of the horse

and rider is blocking my perusal.

I immediately stand on my feet, and I instinctively bow my head. "Page, finish mucking

out these stalls, and see me about your training." Training? I nod and quickly search around for a

pitchfork. I do not know where I am yet, except in a small barn, and that is all I need to go with

the flow.

3

In my early teens in the 21st Century, I begged my parents to allow me to take equestrian

lessons. Riding horses were some of the happiest moments of my childhood, and I was forever

grateful for their financial support. Plus, I learned a lot because part of the experience was how

to maintain and clean the horse and the stall. I don't think anything changed in-What-the-fuck

century was I in any way?!

The mounted stranger signaled the horse to walk, the horse's hooves plodded on the

ground. I turned to watch where the man and steed headed. More than a hundred feet away, the

rider stops and dismounts, walking through a wooden door surrounded by stone, and a servant

leads the horse away.

Not fearing of being yelled at again, I take the opportunity to study the area outside of the

barn - and, HOLY SHIT!

Light from the rising sun was dissipating the morning dew off the immense stone walls,

and a slight breeze stirs the air, a foul smell is assaulting my nose. And damn!

There is more than horse shit in the fragrance! A mixture of refuse and whatever else

humans can throw away casually in the streets is causing the most pungent of smells ever to

exist! There is no underground sewage system in this place; all the garbage is piling up in the

gutters next to the stone walls. Rats are scurrying through the trash with flies buzzing making a

meal of the mess. Gross!

With the newfound light, I glance up to take in the high grey stone walls with the lack of

windows. Embrasures or "arrow-slits," were cut into the rock, a defense mechanism used during

times of siege. I'm narrowing down my possible location in time!

Lastly, men in chain mail and armor were strutting around, their spurs clanging with each

step as the men approach their giant mounts. The horses are also in armor with a boy holding the

reins. I am in the Medieval -Fucking-Times! And I'm not talking about the restaurant with the

jousting in New Jersey!

4

The sight would be a historian's wet dream! A history minor myself, I was awestruck

about my current placement in time. But the reality was also setting in because the Medieval

Times was a place of barbarism and cruelty, veiled in chivalry. What a hypocritical time this

place was! Plus, the Church had the real power here, based on the feudalism pyramid, with the

King under the Pope, then the lords, and so forth, which reminds me. Why did the man call me a

"page?"

I glance down at my attire again, and I'm wearing boy's clothing. Awareness fills me as I

touch my chest, wondering if the fairies changed me from a Jessa to a Jesse. The soft mounds

were still there, but my "girls" were tightly bound. I raise my hands to my hair.

In my past two trips through time, my hair was long, but in the 21st Century, I kept my

hair short. My fingers comb through the straight tendrils, the hair ending at my jawline, styled

like a bob and way too short for women's fashion in this era. Why would the fairies want me to

play the boy in this time?

I do not care to decipher the demands of the pixies, and my survival is paramount. So, I

will do what I have to do. And if I have to muck out stalls, and pretending to be a boy, then I'll do

the job so I can eat! I didn't get a chance to eat before Vesuvius blew, and tiny bubbles are

popping in my stomach.

I grab an old version of the pitchfork leaning against the barn wall, and I head to the first

empty stall. I make quick work of removing the dirty hay and dung. And then I remember water

hoses are not yet invented. Shit.

I find an empty wooden water bucket, and I make my way out of the open barn to find the

well. A young man, aged eleven or twelve, who is carrying a saddle, was passing by. "Excuse

me, Sir?" I ask politely, not sure if this boy is a son of a noble or someone relevant. The last thing

I need is a high-born boy to get their panties in a twist.

"Yes, Page?" The boy stops, watching me patiently.

"Where's the well?"

5

"That way, Page," the young man indicates the direction with the heavy looking saddle.

"Thank you, Sir," and I walk swiftly in the direction, down a little dirt road, which turns

into the central courtyard, surrounded by high stone walls. The water well is in the center of the

yard.

Even though castles were considered cities, I visited much, much larger cities -making

the size of this place irrelevant to me. I draw and fill the bucket with water. It takes two hands for

me to carry the full pale back to the stall, and I splash the water on the stone floor. I begin to

muck out the next empty stall while the floor dries.

I repeat the process, laying down fresh straw when all the stones are dry. I admire my

handiwork before remembering I have a meeting with the man who I assume to be in charge.

I stop at the entrance the burly man went through earlier, and I knock on the wooden

door. A muffled "Enter" passes through the dense wood, and I pushed open the door, stepping

into the dark interior.

The room is a small damp office with a tiny desk in the center and a small lit candle. The

flame is flickering from the draftiness of the place, causing long shadows to form in the corners.

The man who commanded me to muck the stalls is sitting behind the desk, writing on parchment

with a quill. He doesn't glance from his work. The moment gives me a chance to glance around

and attempt to find clues about my current place in history.

There is a shield hanging behind the man with a coat of arms. I realize this is the same

image on the man's shirt. The coat of arms splits into four quarters, one panel with the fleur-de-

lis, and another has three golden lions. Both are the blazons of the French and English royal

houses. I do not recognize the other heraldic symbols in the other two panels; however, I do

understand that I am probably in the castle of a royal lord.

The scratching of the quill stops, forcing my attention back to the man sitting in front of

me. He is studying me, and I openly consider him. He is balding with tufts of gray hair on the

side of his head. His face is leathery and worn with deep lines cutting into his skin from either

6

too much laughing or scowling. His blue eyes are still assessing me with calm interest, and I can

tell this man has experienced hardship for many years. The eyes never lie.

"Did you finish your work, Page?" The man's voice is gruff.

"Yes, Sir."

"I will review your work, and then we will begin your training."

"Please, Sir? May I break my fast?" I plead. I've read too many romance novels set

during the Middle Ages!

"Did you not eat this morning?" The man demands.

"No, Sir. I newly arrived when you saw me," voicing the truth. Technically, the truth.

"Run to the kitchens and grab whatever you can, boy," the man commands.

"Yes, Sir!" I start moving towards the door.

"And, Page. My name is Sir Hubert."

"Thank you, Sir Hubert," and I run out of the room. Now to find the kitchens. I step

outside, pausing in the dim sunlight while looking left and right, wondering which way to go.

"You lost, boy?" Sir Hubert questions behind me. I turn around.

"I do not know where the kitchens are, Sir Hubert," I answer sheepishly.

"Do not be afraid to ask simple questions, boy," Sounds if Sir Hubert's patience is

wearing thin with me. "I'll answer you once. If you ask me the same question again, do not

expect a response."

"Yes, Sir Hubert."

"That way, Page," Sir Hubert points to the left. "You will not miss the fragrance of fresh

bread baking and venison cooking."

"Thank you, Sir Hubert," and I scamper towards the direction Sir Hubert indicated. He

was right. I didn't go far to detect the delicious scent of baking bread and food preparation that

was overpowering the other nasty smells in the vicinity.

7

I arrive at the source of the sublime aromas, entering a massive kitchen. There is a bustle

of activity with cooks and maids chopping and making different things. Young boys are rotating

multiple spits on the fire with varying types of game meat.

"You there! Page!" A male cook yells at me. "What can I do ye for?"

"I missed breaking my fast this morning because I was traveling. May I have a piece of

bread or cheese, kind Sir?" Better with honey, right?

The cook quirks an eyebrow at my plea but expresses some impatience with me for

interrupting his work. He stops what he's doing and cuts me a sizable chunk of cheese and a

piece of bread.

"Here you go, lad," the cook gives me the food. "But don't bother me again if you miss

the morning meal tomorrow, bad luck for you."

"Thank you, sir!" I happily exclaim, and I walk back to Sir Hubert with my meal. I head

towards the stables while trying not to choke.

Finishing the last of my meal, I arrived at the barn, and Sir Hubert was inspecting my

work. He turns around and gives me a curt nod as if pleased with my cleaning the stalls.

"Come with me, Page," and he brushes by me. I follow closely behind him as we head

towards another part of the castle where the training of arms was conducted. There were targets

set up for archery, and swinging dummies with weapons attached for sword training. A little

further off, currently in use, was a tiltyard for jousting.

Two horses with helmeted men wearing padding are barreling towards each other with

jousting sticks. Each rider is carrying a dented shield in front of them. Both riders hit their marks

with a loud BANG and the sound of wood splintering.

One rider was knocked off his horse, lying on the ground for a moment before attempting

to stand. Good thing he was wearing a lot of padding! The other man walks his horse over to the

downed rider. I cannot hear the conversation, but it seems as if the victor was concerned about

the man's well-being.

8

After the brief talk, the rider notices Sir Hubert and steers his fiery red steed over to us.

The rider stops a few feet away and removes his helmet - OH MY FUCKING GOD!