The Time Fetch by Amy Herrick

the earth orbits the sun at an angle. We can calculate the moment of the solstice to the second and we know that we have nothing to worry about. Right? This time of year is really no more dangerous than any other time of year. Winter vacation is in sight. We’ll soon all be busy celebrating Christmas and Hanukkah and Kwaanza and the little bits of ritual which have floated down to us from the past—Christmas trees, flying reindeer, burning lights of various kinds—these are just leftovers from stories that were meant to explain things that no one understood. The earth will tilt back toward the sun as it has always done and all will be well.
    “But I just want you to remember that there are tipping points, when the balance of things gets so out of whack, there is no returning to the old cycles. Sometimes they arrive over what seem to be long periods of time. Sometimes they can arrive relatively quickly. There will be more ice ages. The earth’s orbit will change. Those things will almost certainly happen somewhat slowly. But global warming, nuclear winters, oil spills, tornadoes, earthquakes that send out tsunamis—those happen relatively fast. And perhaps there are forces out there that we are not yet acquainted with. Forces within forces. A surprise or two. It may be that one day the solstice will arrive and the balance won’t tip back. Who knows? It doesn’t do to get too comfy, my young friends.”
    The end-of-the-period buzzer rang. For a moment nobody moved. Then there was a general stampede toward the exit, as if the whole class couldn’t wait to get out of the room.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Inside
    Her dreams were sickening and roller coasterish. Voices kept whispering over her head and she heard nonsensical words. And there was the smell—a foul and rotten stinking of something. She tried to open her eyes, but her lids seemed to have been Krazy Glued together. Then she heard an unpleasant sound, a sound like bones cracking and then a noisy sucking.
    Slowly, it came back to her: the journey through Prospect Park, the pale little man, the wind, the candy house, and the kerchiefed old lady at the door. Whatever she was lying on, it was prickly and uncomfortable. She shifted a little and, without even realizing she was doing it, let out a groan.
    Immediately the cracking and sucking sounds stopped.
    With an enormous effort Feenix managed to open one eye and then the other.
    There wasn’t much light, but she saw right away that she was in a cage, the kind of cage you might keep a big dog in. She was lying curled up on some dusty straw. Next to her was where the smell was coming from. She could see the gristly white bones gleaming in the lamplight. A small mountain of them.
    The inside of the house was not the same as the outside. It was a dark little dump of a place. The floors seemed to be dirt and the walls held up by bare wooden beams. There was a not-very-clean kitchen area and the only place to cook anything looked like the fireplace, which had a big iron pot hanging from a pole.
    If this was a museum, it was a crummy one.
    The old ladies were sitting at a wood-planked table eating with their fingers. There were three of them. Their only light was a single burning candle. At the sound of her groan, they had all stopped eating and turned to stare in her direction. The grease on their fingers glistened in the candlelight.
    “She’s awake,” said one of them. Feenix thought it was the same voice that had greeted her at the door.
    “Ooooh, goodie,” said another voice, unpleasantly high and excited. “Let me have the spectacles.”
    “No,” said the third. “I will examine her first. I will have the spectacles,” and she snatched at something in the middle of the table and then rose and hobbled over to the cage. She bent down and examined Feenix, and Feenix examined her. The woman, if that’s what she was, was wearing a pair of thick-lensed glasses and a long black gown. A bunch of keys hung from a twisted