I imagined my father dead.

In my head, I saw a hurrying crowd of shoppers, eager to get to the mall before closing, speeding through the yellow; the caboose of the line of cars clips through the red; my father, oblivious, starts to go, is sideswiped, and bleeds to death from a head wound.

He was already fifteen minutes late and we were supposed to open our presents as soon as he got home. At 5:00, I was frequenting the front window, willing my father to be in the next car. By 5:30, I was anxious, by 6:00, sweating with anticipation.

He's been in a wreck was the only thing I could envision, for him not to be home by now. That would suck, for other than the obvious reason of my father's pain, we'd also have to postpone Christmas until he got home from the hospital. How many days or weeks could that be, that is, if he wasn't dead? And I really wanted to know what was in the big box against the wall, the one with Andrew written in my father's hand, the one that had been calling my name like a "Tell-Tale Gift" since it had appeared last week.

I looked out the window again through the MERRY X-MAS on the glass, over the plastic Santa Claus in the front yard, and was glad the snowman had started melting because it gave me a better view of the street down the block.

I gnawed the end of a candy cane, not noticing the sting of peppermint, glancing between the window and the wrapped boxes across the room. Another thirty minutes went by and, since I'd passed the last four hours with no television or radio, my mind had dulled with the progression of night. My eyes grew heavy, my breath evened, and my legs were sore from standing. I opened the curtain and moved the armchair so I could sit and look outside.

If my father wasn't home in thirty minutes, I'd call the office. If he wasn't home in another hour, I'd call the police. And, if my father still wasn't home by midnight, I was opening my presents, every one of them—starting with the big one.

And then my eyes closed, my body relaxed, my mind shut down, until, well—

The sun beat against him.

Andrew grunted, moaned, rolled over, and stretched against his sleep, trying to wake his body without having to let his mind follow. Sleep felt good. But Andrew had to get up, no matter how much he didn't want to—he had to turn the heat off, he was roasting.

He sat up, wondering if Dad had ever gotten home, never minding the grit against his arms as he raised himself. Andrew rubbed his eyes. He brushed his hands on his pants then rubbed his eyes again, feeling large grains of sleep falling from them.

Then he opened his eyes, focused on the desert laid out before him, and his eyes adjusted to the sunlight hanging directly above.

How did I get outside? he wondered. And how did I get to the desert?

He sat in the sand for…forever, and just stared. At first, his mind was too dead to wonder what was going on. Then he began to come out of shock, enough anyway for fear to set in. Eventually, that, too, faded, and Andrew was left sitting in the sand again. Just sitting, alone, thoughtless.

Andrew had lived his life in Missouri, with hot summers and cold winters, but he'd never, in sixteen years, had to suffer the desert. They say that to survive in the desert, you should avoid talking, breathing through your mouth, direct sunlight, sun glare, and sweating, and to travel only at night.

Andrew's thoughts were not on his skin or his eyesight. He breathed normally through both nose and mouth, and he spent part of his time talking to himself, mostly to keep from going crazy. He sweated because he moved, walking a little at a time, wishing each step would reveal water or people.

That first day ended with Andrew in delirium on the desert floor, dehydrated, exhausted, burned and blistering. He stared at the stars, half-blind, muttering about the big box with the key in it to the door that led to a land called Missouri. The hot sand scraping against his feet almost ruined them, so he collapsed and was found on his back, now freezing with the desert night air, staring up at a particularly bright star, imagining it was the glass one on top of his Christmas tree.

He suddenly felt something cold and sharp against his neck. Then there was a voice in his ear.

"Everything you've got. My family needs food."

Andrew remained in his daze-world, despite the pressure on his neck from the sharp thing poised there. He felt it digging into the flesh covering his Adam's apple, but couldn't bring himself to respond. His body wanted to swallow, but was afraid the movement might dig the flesh against the blade, for that's what it had to be. And big, judging by where the wielder's hand appeared in Andrew's peripheral vision.

"Nothing," he managed to croak.

Silence, perhaps as the would-be robber thought this over.

"Your jewelry," the voice said. "From your ears."

Andrew remembered the dagger-shaped studs in his ears and thought, You won't get much for these, but nevertheless let the man slip them from their holes.

Nothing else, he decided. However he'd gotten here, he'd done so with nothing he hadn't already had on him, which amounted to the clothes on his body. And in this chill, he hoped his robber didn't decide to take those, too.

The blade relaxed a little and the voice commanded, " Face me."

He tried.

He hadn't expected what he found. Not a robber, but a number of them, a caravan, or consortium, whatever they called such a group. He identified them by the moonlight reflecting off their eyes. Their clothes were dark, to hide them in the shadows at night. For occasions like this, he thought. Concentrating into the dark, he made out the thick robes and headdresses they wore, dark, covering their entire bodies, save their eyes. The one holding the knife had pulled his scarf down so he could be heard.

"What else?" the man asked. He waved the knife, indicating Andrew's body.

"Nothing," he tried to say.

Maybe too quickly: he might have just said it to save himself and his valuables. The robber motioned a thin man to come forward. Andrew wondered if he could trade something for one of those cloaks. Then he remembered he didn't have anything to trade. The tall man patted his hands over Andrew's body, searching for hidden things. He found nothing else except Andrew's keys. These were quickly taken.

"He has nothing else," the thin man said and resumed his place with the others.

"Where are you going out here alone?" the leader asked. "You have no cloak, no tent, not even a camel."

Andrew wondered. No cloak, obviously, no tent, either, unfortunately. But why would he need a camel? Wouldn't a jeep be faster and easier? Granted, he didn't see a gas station anywhere, but one could always carry gas cans.

"Do you not speak suddenly?" the man asked, raising his blade.

"Sorry," Andrew said. He'd only just begun to dig himself from the hole of numbness that finding himself here (wherever that was) had put him in. Now he had this new thing to deal with. He just wanted his cold, snow-covered house and his late father with all those boxes and the big one with who knew what in it.

"No," he said, "I don't. I mean, I don't have any of those things. I wish I did."

"Why?" the man asked, and then brayed laughter as he said, "We'd just take those too."

His friends joined in and Andrew lay there staring up at the sky, wishing they'd all go away. Kill me, or leave me to die in the cold; I don't care. Just pick one.

The man raised his blade high, tightened his fist around it, and began to bring it down fast and hard.

But something was faster and it clamped around the man's wrist, stopping it. A gasp came from the robber as he and Andrew found a big, bearded black man standing between them. The man knocked the robber off his feet and sent the blade flying.

Whoever he was, Andrew thought, he was one quiet mother.

Then he passed out.

How I survived that day was never understood until much later.

I woke on the desert floor beneath a small lean-to. I heard snoring, but didn't have the energy to look. I closed my eyes again, thinking, I'm not dead, so whoever's snoring doesn't want to kill me. Then I dozed off again, to dream of my father's calling voice, searching for me, but I couldn't answer for the silencing blade pressing into my throat.

When I woke again, it was yesterday all over. Sun glaring down, sweat on the body, and I still didn't know where I was.

"You're awake," someone said. A hand closed around my arm and helped me sit up. "We thanked God we got here when we did. Your attackers disappeared into the desert when we confronted them. No doubt they've got holes and hideouts all over, just for the occasion of someone like you, traveling alone."

My eyes didn't want to open all the way. No problem, this sun would blind me if I tried, anyway. I swallowed and it worked. I must have been given water sometime after I passed out. All yesterday, I was swallowing only dry air and pain down a parched throat. I tested my limbs. They were sore, stiff, but they worked. I made to stand but the hands held me.

"You should wait a few days to walk," the voice suggested. "Your feet are scraped raw from the sand. Rest, my Roman friend. We'll take care of you."

"Roman?" I wanted to sound more bewildered than I did. I certainly felt it; my voice just wouldn't make the sounds.

"We figured you were Roman by your clothing. Too elaborate for this part of Israel."

"Israel!" My voice was creeping back by the word and this time the bewilderment had to have come through.

Something shuffled toward me. A voice said, "Of course. Did you expect to be somewhere else? Did you get lost? One of the reasons to always have a party with you."

"Don't worry, we'll be in Bethlehem just after sunset."

I didn't want to ask. I just wanted to fall asleep again and wake up in my bed, or my room, or even on the front lawn; I didn't care, just home.

"My name is Gaspar," the voice said as a hand patted my shoulder. "Who are you?"

"Andrew," I managed.

"Andrew, this is Melchior."

Through slitted lids, I made out a figure pointing to another, further figure.

The blurred hand moved and the voice said, "And that is Balthazar."

"We've got camels," came from Balthazar's direction. "You can ride with Melchior; he's the lightest of us."

"Yes," a final voice, Melchior's, said, "but you've got to rest. It's through God's will alone you haven't died from exposure. This desert can be dangerous, in more ways than just those bandits."

It's The Twilight Zone I kept thinking. I've fallen into an episode and any minute, Rod Serling will begin his monologue and I'll find out what my segment is about. I wasn't dreaming; I'd never dream this long, this in-depth, or about going to Bethlehem. Is that a song title? It seemed familiar for some reason, but then, I was delirious from heat and hunger.

"Do you have any food?" I said, pausing every two words to swallow.

I rested, ate bread and carrots, drank a lot of water, and Melchior (the oldest of the three, at least fifty-five) cleaned and bandaged my feet.

We didn't travel until the sun had moved west far enough for the cool air to reach us. I was helped onto a camel's back, wrapped in a keffiyeh,, a hooded cloak, and told to hang onto Melchior. I pulled the keffiyeh's hood over my head, grabbed the old man, and swayed with the rhythm of the camel's steps. The desert air caressed my face and I thought, If it were like this all the time, I could live here, minus the camel smell. But I knew that when the sun was gone, the cold winds would arrive, and by tomorrow afternoon I'd be wishing for the snow of Missouri again. I realized Melchior was speaking to me.

"Huh?" I muttered, eyes still unfocused on the night.

"Did you come into the desert with nothing?"

"No," I said, "I had things, but Santa Claus stole them."

"Robbed twice?"

"Yeah."

"Do you know where to find this man, Santa Claus?"

"Yeah," I said, "but he's a long way from here."

"Well then," Melchior brightened. "We'll have to watch out for you. God will make sure nothing happens while you're with us."

Great, I thought. I'm glad I've been in His favor so.

We rode a while longer in silence, and the eastern sky was beginning to darken to a red wine color. Either the stench of the camels had dulled, or I was getting used to it, but it still made me more thankful for the keffiyeh, which I could use to cover my mouth. "Why are we going to Bethlehem?" I asked.

"We're following the star," Melchior said. He pointed and I saw it, brighter than all the rest, only it didn't wink like the other stars.

"That's the star of the new king. We're following it to him so we can worship there. We've followed it through Jerusalem, but found no king. We hope Bethlehem is the last stop, but would gladly go as far as it led."

"How far is this town?" I asked, trying to keep from my conscious thoughts the idea that I was riding with the three wise men from the Bible. I hadn't even read it, so why would I be in it? Mentally, I asked Serling when Act One would be over and we could go to commercial.

"Only a few miles," Balthazar said. "We should reach it soon."

I rode on in silence. The other three talked, mostly of their expectations for meeting the new king. They talked of God, of someone named Herod, of their first sightings of the king's star and the realizations each of them felt that told them the new king had been born.

Before I knew it, Balthazar and Gaspar were discussing homes and cattle. I came out of my riding daze and saw we'd reached the town.

Bethlehem.

I'd imagined grass huts or tents, like on Gilligan's Island, something really primitive. But what I saw were homes made of stone, with rooms, cutout windows, and slanted roofs. The homes weren't huddled together, but there was no great amount of space between them, either, and what space there was had been used for growing food. Barns stood behind some of the houses, and the scents of manure drifted on a breeze.

The streets (there were three—one main road, and two cross-streets) were full of people, some sitting by the roadside, some sleeping against the side of a house or business. Melchior mentioned a census.

We followed the star through town, glancing at every third and fourth home. The men were looking for an inn to get supplies—they were almost out of food, and with me, what they did have would be gone even sooner. They also needed fresh water and a decent place to rest.

They asked a few people about the birth of a king, but no one knew anything. We'd stopped to rest the camels when Gaspar said, "We should ask not of a new king, but a baby."

They tried this various times through town, still trying to find a place to buy supplies. Finally, we came to an inn on a cliff overlooking the town.

Balthazar went inside to see about the food, water and shelter we needed. While inside, he asked the innkeeper about a baby.

Balthazar came back and told us of the conversation and the three looked at each other, then got out their books and leafed through them.

"All the signs are correct," Balthazar said. "The One God does act in ways mysterious to us, ways we cannot understand, to have one All High born to an unknown family in a stable."

"Yes," Gaspar agreed. "But, we have inquired all over, and this is the only child we have found. This must surely be the promised King of the Jews."

The set up their tents outside the inn, changed out of their traveling garments and into outfits more . . . regal, I guess. Then they each withdrew small packages from their saddlebags, put them into their pockets, and formed a line of three down the path to the stable below the inn. I thought of my own presents under the tree, large, silent, missing me and wished I were there to unwrap them.

I stayed on the camel because of my feet, but they recounted everything later.

At the bottom, they came to a cave and met a man, only a few years older than Andrew.

"Excuse me," Gaspar said to the man. "My name is Gaspar. My companions are Balthazar and Melchior. We've come from the Lord. We saw the star of the new king and we've come to worship."

There was silence.

Andrew would think later that Gaspar's words should have sounded ridiculous. But for some reason, they didn't. In fact, the only thing he would feel would be a sense of calm, of something accomplished, a sense of being witness to something great.

"Excuse me," the young man said, disappearing into the cave. He came back a few seconds later, asked them to enter, apologizing for the "humbleness" of his quarters. But none of them were listening to him. Their eyes were focused on the woman sitting farther back in the cave, holding a baby, playing with his face. Balthazar, Melchior, and Gaspar threw themselves face down on the ground.

"We have come to pay homage to the new king," Melchior said into the dirt floor.

The woman smiled and held the baby up so he faced them. The baby smiled.

They looked up, studying the baby's face. Then Gaspar nodded to Melchior who, kneeling, said, "We bear gifts for the King."

Each brought his package from under his robes. The man stood behind them at the cave's entrance. The woman glanced up at him, while the baby nodded off on his mother's shoulder.

"I am Balthazar," said the first, "from Saba. I bring my gift of myrrh for the new King."

"I am Melchior, from Arabia. Please accept this gold dust for the new King of the Jews."

"I'm Gaspar of Tharsis," said the youngest. "I offer this jar of frankincense for the child King. We are here to worship, and to serve."

The woman said, "Thank you. And praise God."

The man came into the cave and tried to say something, but didn't seem able to remember the words. The woman smiled and thanked them, then began a prayer. Everyone in the cave except the sleeping baby bowed their heads.

"Thank you," the woman said after the prayer. "God grant you a safe journey."

They went back up the path and sat in the tents they'd pitched. They stayed the night in Bethlehem, with plans to head back tomorrow.

I woke in the middle of the night. Starlight filtered through bright clouds, but another light—much brighter—emanated from somewhere around our camp. I struggled my eyes open to slits and heard a voice.

"You cannot return to Herod."

I didn't recognize it, but I did know the voices that replied.

"If it is as He wishes," Melchior said.

"Yes," Gaspar agreed.

I tried to move to look, but my body was sore from two days of sleeping on the desert floor. I listened, trying to open my eyes further. But then the light was gone, the voices silent, and sleep came again.

When I woke, the other three had already been up a while, and a breakfast of bread and eggs sat by me. They were packing their utensils and tents, and Balthazar was saying, "It would be wrong to ignore the invitation of Herod to return to the palace."

"But would it not be more wrong," Gaspar argued, "to ignore the warning of an angel from the One God?"

Melchior said, "Perhaps it was only a dream."

"Did we all share the same dream?" Balthazar asked.

I wanted to tell them I'd heard the voice myself, but I hadn't actually seen anything, so maybe what I'd heard had been their sleeping voices talking their dream. I ate my eggs.

Watching them pack, it hit me that all the time I'd been here, I had never once mentioned to them my displacement.

I wasn't dreaming. If I'd created a dream-Bethlehem, I would have made it more like some place I'd been to, more like home. And the people would have been white, not the Arabs I was traveling with. But I understood them and they understood me. If I were really here, would they be speaking English? I doubted it. So, there was one thing I couldn't explain.

"So it's agreed," Balthazar was saying. "We'll go instead east through Marsaba, then to Jericho and into Peraea."

"Where is this Missouri you mentioned?" Melchior asked, as we were about to mount.

Balthazar lifted me onto the camel's back. "It's where I'm from," I answered.

"And where is this? Near Rome?" Melchior hoisted himself onto the humped animal, and pulled his hood over his head.

"No. Tell me were are we now, and I'll try to tell you."

"You're here; how could you not know where here is?"

"I don't know," I said. "I really don't. To tell you the truth, when I woke up, I thought I was home. Now, I don't know."

"Leaving Bethlehem," Melchior said. "That's where you are."

"Yes," I said, pulling my own borrowed hood over my head, then pulling the too-big garment back a little so I could see. "But where's Bethlehem? What country?"

"Israel," he said as if Israel were the only place possible. "Where is Missouri to Israel?" He looked up. "Can you see the same constellations in your sky?"

"I don't know, I never looked. But I don't even know where Missouri is—to Israel, I mean."

"Then how did you get here?"

I sat for a second, trying to figure out the thought before giving it voice. The camel swayed under us. I no longer smelled it, but the sight of its flinging saliva still hadn't grown on me. I didn't figure it ever would.

"I fell asleep," I said, trying to let the words come chronologically, hoping the thought wouldn't get distracted. "I was waiting for my dad to get home, and I fell asleep in a chair. He was late. When I woke up, I was here. I fell asleep at night, woke up in the afternoon; I fell asleep at home, woke up in the desert, from Missouri to Israel. What's the year?"

Melchior laughed. I'd heard chuckles from him since meeting the three, but never this kind of outright laughter. You'd have thought I'd asked what color is an orange.

"3790," he said, as his guffaws became giggles, then chuckles, and then sighs of good cheer.

I couldn't say anything. 3790? Maybe I'd been put into the future, where everything was starting over. Then I decided I'd watched too many Twilight Zones. But I'd also wondered if that was where I'd woken. Wasn't it?

No, this wasn't the Twilight Zone. I still wasn't sure what it was, but it wasn't that.

Then I thought, if I was where I thought, the child back there had been Christ, and years were split: BC, before Christ, and AD, which I didn't know the meaning of. I'd always thought it meant After Dead (I found out later: Anno Domino. In the year of our Lord.). But I reasoned that, if the counting of years started from 0 when Christ was born, or died, or whatever, then how did they count before then? They wouldn't have known He was coming when He did, so they couldn't have known that two years before had been 2 BC. So, there must have been some other event that marked the beginning, and so far, 3,790 years had passed.

I blinked the dryness from my eyes. Now I had to figure out how to explain to these people, who'd never read a science fiction story, that I should be two thousand years ahead, on a continent that wouldn't even be discovered for another 1,500 years.

I've seen movies, read stories, in which this kind of thing happens—they're all over—and I always wondered, Why don't they just find someone they trust, tell them what's going on, and try to fix it?

I know why, now. It's not that easy. It seems the logical solution. But when I ran it through my head, the sentence, "I'm from two thousand years in the future, and I need you to help me get back," sounded cheesy. But what else could I do? I knew nothing else. I didn't know the land, the customs, the world. I had never been more ignorant in my life. And I had nothing except my clothes, and the keffiyeh, which was borrowed.

Melchior had moved his attention to the desert, and I decided to do what I should have done a long time ago: take stock.

I knew the name Herod, and that he had a palace, so he must be a king. I knew traveling out here alone wasn't safe. I knew there was a census. I knew Bethlehem. I knew things weren't as primitive as I'd thought, that there were buildings, stores, cities with streets.

And I knew the baby.

What would help me? Should I stick with these three? Weren't they supposed to be Wise Men, after all? But the baby… If all this were real, if the baby was who he was supposed to be, would he be more help than Melchior and the other two? I mean, the Son of God, right?

So, which would be more help? Three Wise Men, or the Son of God? Three earthly men, or a divine infant who couldn't even hold his head up yet?

Under the heat and glare of the sun, the scraping of the sand when it blew past my face, and the wonderful sound of the camel flinging its spit, I made my decision.

They were less than an hour out of Bethlehem and Melchior, Gaspar, and Balthazar didn't seem at all upset when Andrew asked them to turn back. Their main concern seemed to be not returning to Herod's palace. Gaspar and Melchior went into the Inn while Balthazar helped Andrew down the path. They saw the donkey was gone, so Balthazar set Andrew against the rock wall while he went up to the inn.

"They have gone," the innkeeper said.

"I know that," he said, "I have to know where they've gone, and when did they leave?"

"How do I know?" the innkeeper asked. "I only rent the rooms. I hope they don't ever come back. They stayed in the cave! It wasn't a room, and the girl was pregnant, but it belonged to my inn, and they didn't pay. If they're gone, may I never see them again!"

"And you don't know where they were headed, or where they came from?"

"No."

Balthazar went back to the cave and stood at the entrance. Andrew felt his best chance to get home was gone, and he might have to rely on Balthazar and the other two. But what would they know about any of this? They couldn't have been the ones to bring him here, they were just men. It had to be bigger than that. No man could have brought him here, so he'd decided it had to have something to do with the baby. But now, he was gone, and Andrew had no idea where.

Balthazar stepped into the cave, wondering if something inside might give them an idea of where the family had been headed. But Andrew doubted it. He couldn't imagine them leaving anything behind, considering how little they had in the first place.

Turned out he was wrong. They'd left everything, or what there was of it. Maybe they hadn't gone, he thought, maybe they'd just gone to buy something for the baby. But why would that require both of them? Maybe they'd gone out to lunch. But this wasn't Andrew's world, and he hadn't seen too many drive-thru places up the path.

They went back up and told Melchior and Gaspar what they'd found.

"Maybe His presentation at the temple," suggested Gaspar.

"What's that?" Andrew asked.

"After a first-born son's first thirty-one days, he is taken to the temple and presented to God in accordance with Moses' law."

"Where does that happen?"

"There is a temple in Jerusalem. If you'd like to wait, they might be back by nightfall; it's no more than ten miles from here," Balthazar said.

"We'll wait with you," Gaspar offered, "but out of sight, in case Herod has spies watching us. And when the parents return, we must go."

~~~

Herod listened to the words being spoken and when the voice fell silent, he called for his captain. The man entered Herod's chamber and knelt, waiting for his king's command.

"Take a small band of troops," Herod told him, "and head for Bethlehem. I fear our Magi have betrayed me. The child is there. Find him, and kill him."

"Yes, lord," the captain said and went to gather his best soldiers.

Herod thanked the voice that had spoken the whispered words into his ear. He'd not seen the speaker, but surely anyone with power and knowledge like that could be trusted.

The sun had just set and the first chills had crept into the winds. The camels knelt nearby, sleeping. Balthazar, Melchior, and Gaspar sat in our small camp, going from their books to the stars and back.

I leaned against a rock, wondering how I expected this baby to help me. Did I expect it to tell me I could click my heels and go home? Did I expect it to say anything? It was a month old.

I was having visions of a door opening onto my living room in Missouri and a voice saying, "Go on, go home," when I heard the hee-hawing approach of their donkey as they returned to the cave. The baby slept in his mother's arms.

They were surprised, but didn't seem disappointed to find us.

"We were away," Balthazar said, "to Marsaba. Our companion, Andrew—he was hurt in the desert, and so couldn't accompany us last night—"

"I need help," I finished. I had to do this without talking about things they wouldn't understand. I couldn't mention the future. I had to come up with a plausible reason for seeking help from a one-month-old. I opted for cowardice and secrecy.

"I was wondering if I might pray for a minute with the child. Perhaps alone?"

The parents exchanged a look and I could sense the other three tensing. They'd mentioned earlier the baby being in danger. Were they suspecting I was a part of that? I would, I guess. After all, no one knew me; I didn't know the land. I could very well have been brought here by Herod to kill the baby.

I wasn't, but how did I convince them, and get five minutes with the baby out of it? The parents stood a second longer, contemplating, and it was then I realized how young they both were. The girl couldn't have been more than 15 or 16, and the father not much older.

The mother smiled and took the baby inside. I wondered if that meant yes or no, when she poked her head out of the cave and said, "Please, come in and pray. God be with you. But, please, he is tired from the journey."

"I'll be quick," I promised and stepped inside.

The child lay in a trough, covered with a thin sheet to keep the damp air inside the cave from getting to him. His eyes were half-open, but his fingers were busy opening and closing, his mouth curled in a smile at whatever baby thoughts drifted through his head before sleep. I knelt by the trough, put my hands over the edge, almost touching him, not daring.

I didn't want to wake him.

"I know who you are," I said, trying to keep from startling him with my voice and those outside from hearing. "I hope you can help me. I don't belong here," I said, knowing I sounded like an inmate professing my innocence. "I know someone's listening, whether you or not, someone hears me. I don't know why I'm here, but I'd really love to get back home." I stared at the baby, gauging whether I was getting any reaction at all. "Please, send me home."

His eyes closed and his fingers stopped flexing. Part of me was ready to give up, to resolve myself to being in the year 0 forever, but another part said, Maybe he's thinking about it. I decided to hope for the best.

I was leaving the coolness of the cave when a voice, a whisper stopped me. It sank into my head, filling it with instruction, clarity. It was only three words, but it was an answer, at least.

I stepped into the Bethlehem sun. I smiled at the three and thanked them for letting me travel with them.

"I prayed to God," I said, "and He's answered me. I was lost, and unsure which way to take to lead me home. I have to go in a different direction than Marsaba. I enjoyed your company, though, and I owe you for the keffiyeh and the food."

They blessed me and told me to be careful of desert bandits, then bid us all good-bye and were gone, eager to be farther from Herod.

I asked the parents if I could travel with them, since I would be going the same direction. They agreed, and we decided to leave in the morning. They went inside and I stayed out to sleep at the doorway. My feet were still sore and a little puffy, but I hoped by morning they would be good enough to walk to wherever I was being led.

I didn't know how common prophecies or dreams were in that time, but apparently, it was very. For the second night in a row, I woke up to a shining light emanating from the cave.

I leaned up and pushed the keffiyeh's hood back. I couldn't see into the hole; the light was too bright. But I could hear.

"Egypt," a voice said.

Then I heard the father say, "I have a business I must return to. My family must eat."

"Rise!" the voice commanded. "Herod is searching for the child to kill him. Take your family to Egypt, and stay there until I tell you to return. The Lord will provide for you."

The man was quiet. Finally he said, "Yes, Lord."

Then the light in the cave dimmed and glimmered out. Before it was full dark, I saw the father standing to the side of the little room. The mother was sleeping, her face turned toward the back wall. The baby lay awake in his trough, watching the light, reaching for the vanishing figure.

In the dark, with spots flashing in my head, I heard him wake his wife telling her, "Mary, wake up. We have to go, now! Herod is coming for the baby."

At the name she was up saying, "Herod? He can't find us. He would surely kill us."

"Yes, an angel of the Lord just appeared to me. It said we must go to Egypt until the Lord tells us to return."

I could hear them gathering their few things. The spots in my vision disappeared as my eyes adjusted to the dark. Mary took the baby from the trough, wrapped him in her cloth and held him to her chest. She took a last look around the little place then walked out of her baby's birthplace for the last time.

I got up and asked if I could help. I told them I could pack their things onto the donkey while Joseph paid the innkeeper, if I could accompany them.

"But you were going toward Nazareth," Mary said.

"I'd really like to help if I could," I said. I wanted to tell them I was supposed to stay with them, that I'd had my own "vision" and had to follow where they went, until… Until when, I wasn't sure. But I'd know it when it happened. "And maybe if Herod's men see all of us, they won't think 'family' and stop us."

They passed a look again and Joseph said, "Okay. Help Mary and the baby. I'll be back, and then we're to Egypt." He was halfway up the path when he turned back and said, "If you see anyone, tell them nothing. No one can know."

Once we were on the road, I asked him about Jerusalem and he told me about the city.

"No," I explained, "I meant, why did you have to take the baby there?"

He told me the story of Moses leading the Israelites from Egypt and God killing the first-born Egyptian sons and, to keep from their own children being killed also, the Israelites were instructed to present their first-born child to God, then buy him back with an offering.

"But how long ago was that? Surely that wouldn't be valid anymore. I mean, everything's got to be a lot more advanced than it was then."

"God's word is never invalid."

I churned my thoughts for a while then said, "But how can you take the word of a God who threatens killing your children?"

The mother had her face to the desert, pretending not to listen. Was this not a conversation for a woman to hear? Did things still work like that here?

"We follow God's law," he said, as if speaking to a child, trying to explain the concept of up and down and how they couldn't be reversed, "because He brought us from slavery, gave us our own nation. He chose us as His people, when he could have chosen any other nation over us. Nothing made us special from all the others, the Canaanites, the Egyptians, except that the Lord singled us out as such."

"And then said, 'Do as I say or I'll kill your children.'"

"No, it's not like that," he said. He flashed a glance at his wife, swaying on the donkey, the baby asleep in her arms. She was still ignoring us. He explained Passover to me, and the blood of the lamb over the door signifying to the angel of death that that house was to be passed. Then he tried to get me to understand the sacrifices and offerings as thanks to God for all He'd done.

"A thank you for not killing your children?" I wasn't trying to disagree, and I didn't, really. I just wanted to understand.

"No, for forgiving our sins."

"What sins?"

"The sins of being human."

And there he lost me. My questions must have made him nearly insane, and I'm sure he was sorry for letting me come along. Finally, after another hour of walking, he had it boiled down to a simple argument:

It wasn't the sin itself—not the things everyone had done—that required forgiveness, but the knowledge of sin. Adam and Eve had eaten from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil and, after eating, had within them the ability to do evil, to choose it, to act on that decision. Before the fruit, they didn't know the difference. Afterward, they did, and it was really the knowing what is sin and still choosing to do it that required forgiveness.

I nodded ascension, only half-understanding, but I could tell he no longer wanted to talk about it, and his wife didn't want to hear anymore. I changed the subject.

"How far is it to Egypt? How many days from here?"

"Too many," he answered. "It depends on how much we travel."

Which wasn't much. He was walking at the slow pace of the donkey, and I was walking at the slow pace my feet allowed. They were still tender, but almost back to normal.

"It won't be much with the child," he went on. "We'll have to limit traveling to night and early morning. By midday, we'll have to camp, to keep the child in the shade and let him rest. It will be slow, but the Lord is with us."

A few hours later, just as the sun was rising into the middle of the desert sky, we stopped. Mary fed the baby; Joseph set up a tent and bedroll for the three of them. I leaned against the donkey and thought about home, wondering what I had to do to get there. And would my boxes still be there when I got back? Would I return to the time I left, or would the time I'd spent here count there as well? I didn't see why it would; I'd traveled backward. Surely when I went forward, I could stop at the moment I left, couldn't I?

It made sense to me.

Dreaming of his Christmas presents and the brilliant green tree, Andrew didn't hear the conversation of Mary and Joseph.

"Why do you think he's here?" the young mother asked.

"I'm not sure. It may be to help us protect the baby. But Herod is also after us, so maybe he's sent a spy ahead."

Joseph looked over at the sleeping baby, wrapped in a thin cloth and laying under the shade to keep the desert heat from smothering him.

"But he is the chosen King," Mary reasoned. "Why would God put a spy in our midst?"

"Maybe to test our worthiness to raise the child, to see how a poor carpenter and his young wife do in teaching the king of the Jews about our Lord. If he is a spy, we could kill him now. Herod wouldn't find him until we were gone."

"Should we keep watch over him, or let him help us keep watch over Jesus?"

At the name, the infant opened his eyes, gurgled, smiled, and drifted off again.

Joseph started gathering the few items they'd unpacked, a few dishes and a blanket. He strapped the things to the donkey's side and looked into the distance. "We should be in Egypt before the week is up if we can travel straight through the night. I just hope the Lord is watching. I don't like going alone in these deserts. Too much danger."

"I don't think God would warn us to go to Egypt and then put a spy with us," Mary said, picking up the baby and rocking him against her shoulder, his tiny head craned to the side, his breath coming in baby sighs.

Joseph woke Andrew. Mary looked at his feet and asked how they felt. Andrew stood and walked a little, then said, "They're fine, pretty much. I'll be okay. I got this far."

"Very slowly," Joseph reminded him.

"Well, if you people had jeeps, we could have been there and back," Andrew said.

"Jeeps?" the parents asked in stereo.

"Nothing."

"We'll have to go as far as we can," Joseph said, "to keep as much distance between us and Herod's men as possible. If that means we go until sunrise…"

"I understand," Andrew said, slipping his shoes on. "The baby has to be protected."

~~~

Herod's men didn't have the luxury of camping. Out of fear of their king, they rode straight through, stopping only long enough to let their camels rest, an hour at a time, two hours at the most, then it was back on the road to Bethlehem. They quickly closed the gap between themselves and the child.

The sun was about fifteen minutes from setting, Joseph said. Then we'd pick up and travel the entire night. We'd stopped because the donkey had reached a point where it refused to go any further, not until it slept. That was fine by me. I could feel my shoes tightening around my feet.

In the meantime, I took a few seconds to sit with Mary and the baby. I stared at him, wondering how or if this little thing could get me home. His hands would be swallowed in mine. I could palm his face, if it was a ball, and I have small hands.

He lay on his back at our feet, staring up at his mother. His eyes would flit once in a while to me, as if wondering who I was, then, deciding I was no one important, he'd shift his attention back to his mother. She sat smiling down at him. She put her palm to his stomach and let it lay there, like she was trying to reassure herself of his reality.

He was cute, with his tiny body, tiny face. His toothless grin made us all smile.

Finally, it was night again, and we walked. Mary and the baby again swayed on the slow donkey. I was trying to decide which animal smelled worse, the donkey or the camels, when I stopped to rub a few stinging grains from my eye. I worked them out, brushed them away, and lowered my hood over my face. The wind was picking up and I was freezing. I looked up to see if Mary or Joseph were showing any signs of cold, too. But I couldn't see them anywhere.

Mary wrapped her cloak further around the baby to keep the wind and sand from his fragile skin. Despite the child's origins, she knew a baby's skin had to be protected. She hugged him to her chest, trying to wrap her body around him. The donkey hee-hawed its disgruntlement, but Joseph grabbed the rein and dragged it on.

By now the wind was almost blinding. Sand flew past in biting waves, scraping whatever skin wasn't covered and battering into whatever was.

"Joseph!" Mary called. She had to call it loudly; the blowing wind was trying to drown sound. "Maybe we should set up the tent and wait until this passes?"

"We've got enough hindrances," Joseph said. "The angel said we would only be safe in Egypt. We must get there as soon as possible."

"But we're not getting anywhere in this!"

The combination of sand and wind became lethal, whipping about furiously.

Suddenly the baby started crying. That, and its unexpected thrashing within its bundle startled Mary. Her hands flew open and the baby fell, padded in thick clothes, to the loose sand.

She screamed, but Joseph couldn't hear. By now, the only sounds to reach his ears were rushing wind and scratching sand. Mary tried to slip off the donkey's back, but the wind kept slamming into her face until, to save her eyes, she had to pull her wrap around her face and bury it into the donkey's side. She tried to swat Joseph's arm to get his attention, to tell him the baby was gone and he had to stop and find it.

In this storm, he would be buried in seconds.

Joseph felt her arm hitting his, but thought it only the wind. He pulled the donkey into the wind, which did its best to keep him back.

Mary glanced back, but could see nothing in any direction, like a solid fog.

My hood covered my entire face as I tried to find the others by sound. I listened for the donkey, for the baby, for something. All I could hear was wind.

I thought of Missouri winter blizzards with snow and ice assaulting from every direction. No matter which way you turned, the stuff always found your eyes, even when you had them squeezed shut so tight you thought you might bruise your eyelids.

This was like that, only without the freezing.

I fought against the grains, hoping I hadn't lost my path. The wind grabbed the folds of my keffiyeh, preventing any further progress. The sand was even worse.

I trudged forward, hoping they'd notice I was gone, and wait for me. Maybe Joseph was used to this kind of thing and knew what to do, other than try to fight it like an idiot.

I considered just sitting down, draping the keffiyeh over me like a tent and waiting. Then I remembered what I'd heard in the cave, and made myself go forward.

I stumbled over a couple rocks and fell to my knees. My hands sunk into sand, and were buried before I could put my feet under me and stand again. I brushed sand from my hands and stepped back into the storm.

Mary finally screamed loud enough for Joseph to turn. Her throat hurt from screaming. Her feet had tangled in her robes from kicking and trying to get off the donkey's back.

Joseph turned. He twirled the donkey's rein around his wrist until he stood at Mary's feet. He craned himself up to hear as she lowered her head.

"What?" he yelled into the storm.

"The baby!"

Despite the sand, wind, and noise, the words terrified him.

"He's fallen!"

Joseph wriggled his wrist from the leather strap and dropped to his knees. He sifted through the sand, pushing a path through it back the way they'd come, but his fingers yielded only sand and small rocks. He dug deeper, shoving sand out of the way, then doing it again when the grains fell back into his path. The wind still whipped about, but he ignored it, and tiny particles blew into his face, went up his nose, stung his eyes.

He had to find the baby. The Lord would not give them this blessing, especially if, as the three men said, this was the promised King of the Jews, only to have him taken by the desert. Maybe they hadn't gotten to Egypt soon enough, and this was what the angel had meant by its urgency that they get moving immediately. Would those few minutes have mattered?

Where was his son? Was this a mistake, and God would keep the baby safe until Joseph got to him? Surely, in this storm, the bundle would be buried beneath who knew how much sand. And in those wraps, the air would not last long. Please Lord, Joseph begged, let me find him in time.

He pushed through the sand, his hands buried to mid-forearm, crawling forward, sweeping from side to side, carefully, so as not to hurt the baby if—no, when!—he found him. His fingers hit something hard. He grabbed, but found it too heavy. He brushed the grains away and saw something white, round. Above that, dark blue, with red and green lines woven into it—Andrew's keffiyeh.

The storm slackened a little, and Joseph saw Andrew'd made a small tent of his robe and was inside it. Joseph had forgotten the boy had even been traveling with them. He shook Andrew's shoulders and called through the wind, "Andrew, my son is lost in this! I need your help. Please, we have to find him!"

Andrew didn't answer, so Joseph shook his shoulders and tried to shove the hood aside to find the boy's head. Andrew looked up, the fabric falling away from his face.

I stretched my arms up. The storm was almost over, only a small wind still carrying a few scattered grains around. My hands held the baby, who'd stopped crying. When I'd tripped over him, I'd almost had a heart attack thinking, God, no, please tell me I wasn't brought here just to crush the baby? But he was fine; just scared. I don't think he'd been more than five feet from his mother since he was born. He was still wrapped, but I moved the bundles from his face to let him breath under my keffiyeh. He smiled when I brought him out, and it looked as if he held his arms out for his father.

Joseph took his son, hugged him, laughed, and pulled me to my feet. Sand fell around my ankles and shoes as I stepped out of the pile that had blown around me.

"You saved my son's life!" he said. "I'm in your debt. Whatever I have is yours, please."

"I only want to come with you to Egypt," I said.

I shook sand from my shoes and socks and put them back on, careful of the healing blisters, and we walked together back to where he'd left Mary and the donkey. We got to the spot, but Joseph couldn't find them. Then we noticed movement under the sand, and I cleared it away to reveal Mary and the animal buried beneath it.

"The donkey," Mary said. "It got caught and we fell. I think it broke its leg." She'd crouched next to it, hoping its body might block the sand.

The donkey's leg was snapped. Joseph put the animal down, and we had food for a few more days and the baby had new blankets, even if they did smell like donkey.

But now we had to walk the rest of the way to Egypt. That was fine for Joseph and I, we'd been doing it anyway, but I wondered if Mary'd be able to make it. And would she let one of us carry the baby to lighten her load? But then, we'd probably be lugging the supplies. So maybe she was getting off easy, only carrying the baby.

We didn't move another foot until the next night.

With everyone walking, it didn't take long for Herod's men to catch up. They watched them for a day, traveling a distance behind. They waited until afternoon then revealed themselves just as the troupe was waking.

Andrew blinked into the fading afternoon sun. As soon as they saw he was awake, arms were around him, holding him tight. He tried to struggle and call Joseph's name, but his attacker slapped a dirty hand over his face. Andrew breathed in the scent of camel again and wondered how far away the Magi were this time. Last time, they'd appeared almost from nowhere and saved his life. He doubted they'd put in an appearance this time.

He was dragged to his feet and away from the camp. The hands shoved him into the large chest of another man. Andrew bounced off the bulk and fell backward. He sat back up, and looked into the leering face above him.

He heard struggles back at the tent: Joseph and Mary being dragged awake. Mary didn't voice the protests Andrew had expected. They were brought to where Andrew was still sprawled in the sand.

"What's going on?" Joseph asked. "Why have you accosted my family? We've done nothing to you."

The villains looked at the three in the sand, saying nothing. One of the men leaned into the big one's ear and said, "Are we sure? The innkeeper said a man and his wife had left alone with their baby. Three people, not four."

The big man said, "The innkeeper said this woman gave birth in the cave beneath his inn. He also said the Magi called on them. Everyone else is in town for the census."

"Where is the child?" he asked the parents. Both ignored him. But they didn't have to answer; a cry from the tent did so for them. Someone had found the baby under Mary's blankets.

The baby was brought out and handed to the leader.

He smiled at the parents, and at Andrew.

"Good," the leader said. "Our search is over. We can return to the palace. Herod will be pleased. Take him to that rock," he instructed, handing the baby back to the one who brought him from the tent. He slipped a knife into the palm of another man.

"No!" Mary shrieked and stumbled toward them.

The big man backhanded her and she fell to her stomach, her face buried in the sand. She raised her head, and bits of sand stuck to her lips where she was bleeding. Joseph raged at them, knocking one out of the way. He'd almost reached the big man who'd slapped his wife before a foot knocked the wind from his stomach. Then a fist came down on his back and Joseph sank to the sand.

Andrew remembered the words spoken to him in the cave. He wanted to act, but fear prevented him from moving. He'd never been in a fight before. The whole situation was absurd enough, but he really hadn't expected anything to come of it. He'd never heard this part of the story before.

Herod's men unwrapped the baby and laid him on his bare back across a rock. He cried when his skin touched the rough stone. His naked stomach rose and fell with his screams. His parents struggled to their feet again, and were knocked back to the ground. Purple bruises were forming on their faces, and Joseph held his leg as if it were sprained or cracked. Andrew heard Mary's wheezes and hoped that last punch hadn't collapsed one of her lungs. In this time period, they couldn't have any way of fixing that. She buried her face, hoping, if nothing else, not to have to see her son die.

The man with the knife raised it above his head.

The big one said to them, "Herod is the only king you need bow before. If this little creature is born the new king, then long live the old king!" He nodded to the man.

In the space of a blink, his hand drove the blade down; Mary fainted; Joseph screamed, tried to jump up and fell again on his wounded leg; Andrew heard the words again—Protect the child!—and a rock slammed into the knife-wielding hand, smashing the fingers and making the murderer drop the blade. It clanged to the rock, its aim ruined, and landed beside the baby's leg. Then it slid off the rock and the tip stuck in the sand.

Everyone looked around, except Mary. None looked more puzzled than the would-be killer. He cradled his broken fingers in his other hand a moment before picking up the rock that had struck him. Andrew would have called it football-sized. Whoever'd thrown it had a lot of power in their arm, that, or a lot of power backing the thrower. Either way, the child lived.

Enraged, the killer attempted to use the rock to smash the child. A knife landed in his back. Still clutching his makeshift weapon, he fell to his knees and died.

Everyone was still looking for the baby's savior. Andrew found him.

His memory of the man's arrival was cloudy from the exhaustion and dehydration, but when he saw the figure standing wrapped in black robes just behind the camp, Andrew recognized the small silver dagger studs he hadn't worn in over a week.

And as soon as person had spotted him, everyone did. But before any retaliation could be organized, three more robed figures popped up, surrounding them, each wielding a large, shining sword and issuing a look of death from their eyes, the only parts not covered.

Herod's men were six strong, then five. Two more were dead within a minute, and sand blew over the bodies, clinging to the sticky blood pooling under them. Two of the bandits took on a single killer, obviously skilled with his sword. Their fight took them further into the camp before the two finally bested the man, flinging his head for whatever desert animals found it.

Andrew heard the words again. Protect the child! He got to his feet and dashed for the rock, where the baby was about to roll off. Something tripped him, and he lay sprawled again in sand. A gash across his forehead opened, stinging from the sand. His palms were scraped raw and bleeding. He looked around and wiped blood from his eye.

The captain towered over Andrew. He raised his boot and shoved it into Andrew's face.

Through the fog in his head, Andrew heard the baby screaming. He's about to fall! He tried again to stand. At the least, he could lay the baby on the ground and he'd be safe until this rumble was over.

Thunder exploded against the back of his head and his vision cleared just as the rock stopped rolling a few feet from him. He grabbed it, rolled onto his back, and hurled it back at his attacker. But his position gave him no leverage and it fell short.

The man laughed. Andrew skittered away from him and hit his head against a boulder. The man saw this, and laughed louder.

Then his laughter halted and he looked down. Andrew followed his eyes and saw a red stain forming at the front of the killer's cloak. The stain grew, darker, bigger, and then grew a glint of silver.

Joseph shoved the rest of the blade into the man's back. He began to fall forward, but Joseph's hand around the hilt held him and Herod's captain landed on his back instead, the sword extending from his chest.

Andrew closed his eyes in relief, let out a sigh. Then he screamed when something fell against his chest. He shrieked once, jerked, and opened his eyes. The baby lay in Andrew's arms.

Protect the child.

Well, he had. Accidentally, but he had.

The baby whined with fright, then stopped and smiled up at Andrew.

~~~

When Mary'd been woken up and Joseph's leg had been wrapped and splinted, the leader of the bandit group came to Andrew.

"I owe you something," he said, sitting next to the boy. He removed the studs from his ears and handed them back.

Andrew looked at them and smiled. Then he handed them back. "I don't need them. Call it a gift. You saved my life."

"No," the man corrected. "You saved mine. I saw you that night, weak, sick, ready for the ground. All I saw was something I might be able to sell, some way to feed my family."

"I remember," Andrew said. "Almost. But I didn't do anything, I couldn't have. Like you said, I was ready to die. I wanted to."

The man looked at the studs before slipping them back into the holes in his ears. "I saved these. Normally, I would have sold them, but after that night, I knew I had to return them. But those men took you, and I didn't know if I'd see you again."

"It's lucky you were here when you were," Andrew said. He stared at the baby in Mary's arms, wondering just what it was about this child. He planned to stick around and find out.

"Not luck," the man said. He looked in Andrew's eyes and Andrew looked back into his.

"When those men came to save you, their silence, their power—they put the fear of God into me and, through that, I stopped robbing. I prayed for the Lord to help me in providing for my wife and children. Without you, I would have gone on robbing, hoping to make it from day to day."

"How did you find me?"

"The same way the three men who saved you that night did. I was brought to you."

We reached Egypt soon after that; we had Herod's camels to ride. We lived the first few weeks in Egypt in fear, hiding the child, until we realized we really were safe here. Herod never sent anyone else after us; he died soon after that day.

It's almost the baby's birthday, the first Christmas. He's walking now, with the help of anything he can hold onto. I've been by his side every day since that time in the desert. Mary and Joseph have accepted me as an extension to their family, an uncle, I guess. I feed him, put him down for his naps. I tell him stories, even though I don't know if he understands me. He loves me, and I love him right back.

Only once since that day has anything out of the ordinary happened.

The baby had fallen asleep in Mary's arms. She put him in his crib and covered him. I told them good night and went next door to my own small house.

I dreamt a light came into the room, bringing boxes wrapped in bright colors and ribbons. I recognized them, of course. I hadn't forgotten; they just didn't hold any importance anymore. I was given the chance to go home and find out their contents.

I turned it down. Whatever was in the boxes, I would just as soon give to the boy, because anything I have is his.

The light told me I'd completed my task and could go home. I chose not to. The light told me I would be forgotten, that when the child grew and his story was told, it would be minus the person who'd helped his family escape to Egypt. I didn't care. None of that is important anymore.

Only the child, and the love he brings.