The Lost Locket of Lahari Anthology

By Kellie Sheridan, Erica Crouch, Terra Harmony and 2 more

In a dusty, dilapidated stall tucked away in an alcove of a bustling Bazaar in India, a man with a rickety spine and a spindly beard bends over his work bench, forging a locket with accidental magic. There’s power in a wish, and there’s nothing he wants more than for his children to return home. The locket was intricately crafted, adorned with one dragonfly for each of his children—and the power to find them.

With the guidance of fate, the locket skips through time and journeys across oceans, traveling from person to person in a constant search for the souls whispered into its vessel. Centuries after the magical old man in the Bazaar became near-forgotten myth and whispered legend, the locket has fallen into the hands of those with echoes of the six dragonflies: the seeker, the empath, the dreamer, the confidant, the adventurer, and the dancer.

In the hands of its new owners, the power of the locket adapts, bending and remaking itself to answer need. While the locket never found the children of Lahari, it found the next best thing… Their spirits.

The six novellas of the Lost Locket of Lahari anthology pause a moment in time when the locket finds the ripples of its ancestry. From the Victorian-era to the Roaring Twenties, the 1940s to modern day and beyond, this anthology is a collection of stories as dynamic as the authors themselves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patchwork Press
• Release date: Sep 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781927940136

Kellie Sheridan

After taking a gap-year to live in Ireland, Kellie has now settled into a life focused on the publishing world. Between working for three small publishing houses, reviewing for her book blog, and writing, it’s all books, all the time. And she wouldn’t have it any other way. Kellie currently lives near Toronto, Ontario with her family, including a pair of Glen of Imaal Terriers. You can visit Kellie online at http://www.kellie.snarkybooks.com Or follow @Kellie_Sheridan on Twitter

Book preview

THE Lost Locket of Lahari

ANTHOLOGY

Erica Crouch - Terra Harmony - Janna Jennings - Kellie Sheridan

Introduction by Kara Baird

Copyright © 2014 Patchwork Press

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and plot are all either products of the authors’ imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons—living or dead—is purely coincidental.

First Edition

ISBN: 1927940125

ISBN-13: 9781927940129

This book is dedicated to its reader.

Thanks for pretending with us.

Contents

THE

Lost Locket

of Lahari

ANTHOLOGY

The Seeker – Kara Baird

The Empath – Erica Crouch

The Dreamer – Terra Harmony

The Confidant - Janna Jennings

The Dancer and The Seeker – Kellie Sheridan

Our Authors

The Seeker – Kara Baird

Christine, don’t be long—meet us back at the carriage in an hour please. We’ve got a lot of things to discuss with your grandfather today, a tall brown-haired woman said in an English accent.  She opened a lacy parasol, resting it on her shoulder, and took the arm of her husband, who was dressed to impress in his white naval uniform.

Christine groaned. Her pinned curls pinched her scalp, and the blue-and-white sailor dress her mother forced her to wear was far too hot for the desert city of Lahari. She was fifteen years old now, and her mother still dressed her up like a china doll. Amid the red sands, and the towering canyons, she felt more out of place than ever. Her mother couldn’t have been comfortable either—in her gauzy maroon hat and layers upon layers of petticoats.

Yes mother, Christine said, obedient.

I wouldn’t dare keep dear old grandfather waiting, Christine thought. What is this, the sixth time this year he’s considered dying? How many times can one man revise his will?

Still, Christine was grateful for the chance she had to escape from dreary and rainy old London. Instead of being splashed by carriage wheels hitting rain puddles, Christine only had to dodge herds of donkeys and sheep in the middle of the desert bazaar.

Sparkling sequins, velvety fabrics, and pungent spices surrounded her, begging to be bought by the women cloaked in headdresses and the men with elaborate tattoos running up their hands and arms.  She ran her fingers over everything she could touch—searching for something she could bring home to show her schoolmates.

She blinked, and then she saw it—she rubbed her eyes, sure that it hadn’t been there before. The shack was as rickety as his spine, both barely standing. The elderly man, with his brown skin dark and wrinkled from years in the sun, was a pile of bones; joints stacked one on top of another until he was almost too tall for his tented stall in the corner of the bazaar. 

He bent over a box of tangled jewelry, unknotting them and hanging them up around his tent and counter space, where those around could admire the wares he had to sell. 

Christine inched past a woman selling dried spices out of a basket. She nearly stepped on a group of children flicking marbles on the dusty ground, just so she could get a closer look at the stall. The hanging jewels sparkled in the sunlight, and the chains and charms tinked together in the light breeze. It was almost like an over-decorated Christmas tree—Christine could hardly see the actual canvas of the tent, it was so covered in baubles and bits.

Are you looking for something in particular? the crumpled man asked, his hunched-over back to Christine.

She examined velvet pads holding rings shaped like cobras and bracelets bordered in elaborate gold patterns.

Just something... special, I suppose, she said, trying on the snake ring and holding it front of her face.

The old man turned at the sound of her voice, revealing a large nose and eyebrows the size of small animals. Christine wondered how he could even see.

You are English, then? He asked, his accent thick. He began pulling some boxes from beneath the counter—surely more chains to untangle.

I am. You don’t see items quite like this back there. I’d like something... to help me remember Lahari, when I’m not here. She replaced the ring back on its pad, unsatisfied. 

You return here a lot? the man asked, placing a box of jewelry before her. 

Oh, thank you, Christine said, rummaging through its contents. And yes, my grandfather was stationed here in the army. He finally retired a few years ago, but he never did leave.

He held up a bracelet with green and gold beading and tied it around Christine’s wrist. 

Ah, a wise man, he said. There is nowhere in the world like Lahari. It took a lot of reconstructing after the great war many years ago. But we are back on our feet once more. He held up his hands, showing off his tent of tangled trinkets.

She studied the bracelet, and then untied it. Yes, it seems that way.

You don’t like the bracelet? The man gestured at her wrist.

Oh, no, it’s beautiful. But do you have anything...with history? I don’t want to ever forget Lahari.

What better way to remember Lahari’s history than a green bracelet—the color of our country!

Something more—something with a story, perhaps? My grandfather is a history man himself—he kept records of everything that has happened in Lahari since he’s been here. Articles, books, journals, everything. Christine was rambling again, waving her hands around in a blur. She blushed, returning her arms to her sides. Her mother always chastised her for her impropriety around strangers.

"He kept records of everything, did he?" The man crouched below the counter, clattering through what sounded like piles of pots and pans.

Christine raised an eyebrow, challenging the shopkeeper. Everything.

He popped up from behind the counter so quickly, Christine jumped back, startled. She let out a nervous laugh as he wiped a layer of dust off of a small wooden box with his grimy sleeve.

As the box creaked open, a look of sadness washed over the man’s face. Has he ever told you the Legend of Adara and the Lost Locket of Lahari? He voice seemed to waver as he spoke, and the air around the tent had grown still.

Christine was wary, but she leaned over the counter to get a better look. She swallowed hard, attempting to get rid of the dry lump in her throat. I can’t say that he has. Told me the story, I mean.

He pulled a long chain out of the container, followed by a round locket that fit neatly into the bedding of the shopkeeper’s palm. Something inside of Christine jolted, and her heart was beating faster than it had before.

May I? Christine asked, holding out her hand. The man placed a cloth onto her palm before placing the jewelry on top of it. She gave him a questioning look.

To protect it, and your hand. This metal can sometimes get very cold, he spoke fast, not wanting to argue. He felt like he was debating with one of his own children over the dinner table, but despite her endless chatter, he liked Christine.

She was surprised at the chill of the metal as she traced the designs with her finger. Do the dragonflies mean anything?

An unusually cool wind moved through the stall, causing Christine to shudder. The shopkeeper, however, seemed to expect it.

All part of the story, the man said, pulling a stool under his bottom. His voice became low and quiet, drawing Christine closer. Over Christine’s shoulder he could see that the movement of the marketplace had completely stopped. The wind had brought both a chill and a pinch of magic with it, freezing everyone in place except for the two figures in the over decorated stall.

It belonged to a man with six children, all very different: one was an empath—clever and pure; another a dreamer, imaginative and guarded; the third a confidant, courageous and resilient; and finally the youngest—the dancer, free-spirited and graceful.

That’s only five, Christine said, counting on her fingers.

Yes, well the last child was not his child at all really, but the soon-to-be wife of his son, the brave soldier.

What was her trait? The fiancé.

The man pulled out a hard loaf of bread and some cheese and began tearing it into pieces for himself and his new friend. I’ll take my lunch now, he said.

Well? Christine asked.

The old man sighed, rubbing his hands together, ready to tell the story that seemed so long forgotten. A story that even the wind had settled in to hear.

She was the seeker, questioning and stubborn. Always looking for answers. Sounds a bit like you, no?  He handed her a piece of bread.

Christine smiled, taking the snack. Where did the father come from?

He swallowed the dry bread and took a chug of water before continuing, building the suspense for the impatient girl.

He licked his lips and began.

Years ago, there lived an old man many miles from here. He looked a lot like me, and sold in a marketplace not unlike this one. He was a metal worker, if I recall...

#

An array of trinkets sat before him—a pile of bracelets, rings, small daggers, and little metal toys. Every time he lifted his hand to bring the hammer down on them, something stopped him, and his loosely fitted skin and muscle sagged around his bicep.

Argh!  The frustrated man yelled, tossing his hammer to the ground with a chink. A seventy-year-old metal worker! Who ever heard of such a thing?

He cursed under his breath with a thick middle-eastern accent while he gathered the various scraps of metal from the pile. He placed them in a bowl to be put over the fire. He was preparing them to be repurposed into something new. Pieces of his children’s past that could no longer offer him solace were to be forged into a map of his future. 

Tinkering with your toys again, Aamir? A young woman with a basketful of naan asked, passing in front of Aamir’s tent. She held back the tattered curtains, which were moth eaten and faded. She remembered how different they used to look when she was a young child—thick with embroidered stories and small jewels. But like Aamir’s wife and family, the beauty and happiness that once surrounded him had long since faded.

Something like that, he said, pulling open the cloth flaps that covered his home and workstation. Maybe a bit of your bread will help speed the process, hmm Adara? He squinted at the light, covering his eyes like he hadn’t seen it in days.

Adara tightened the hijab cloth around her face and peered into the tent. A worn mattress lay on one side, a smoldering fire and worktable on the other. Metal plates were scattered across the floor and it looked like the food dried to them had been cooked weeks ago.

Noticing her disapproving look, Aamir moved to stand in front of her line of sight.

Now I am embarrassed. To show such a mess to such a beautiful woman! It is a disgrace. I admit it is a struggle to get anything done around here these days, Aamir said, lowering the curtain to cover his doorway.

She held out a hand to help the crooked man up the stairs and onto the bustling street of the Lahari marketplace. Holding his hand was like grabbing a pile of sticks.

Ever since Sana died, God rest her soul, I don’t think I’ve seen you leave this place for a full meal. I worry about you here all alone.

Adara took a piece of naan bread out of her basket and handed it to Aamir. He eyed it for a second, like he was trying to recognize whether it was real or a mirage. Finally, his hands moved the food to his mouth for a greedy bite. As he gnarled the bread with his teeth, Adara smiled, masking a grimace. She watched as the breadcrumbs shuffled their way into the stubble on Aamir’s weathered face. He finished the bread in four bites, sucking his fingers for any last remnants he might have missed.

Here, have another Aamir. And some cheese from my goat, she said, holding out two more pieces and a small package with hesitant hands.

Watching Aamir eat reminded her of a ravenous animal. He was cautious to accept the gift and terrifying to watch defend it once accepted. She smiled at the faces passing her, trying to remain the image of propriety. As much as she had loved forming a friendship with Aamir over the years, she hoped her visits with the old man would make her look kind to passersby and not crazy, as Aamir was rumored to be.

Thank you for your kindness, young one, Aamir said, accepting the loaves. I will repay you somehow in the coming days. I have something very special I am working on, and I would like you to be the first to see it when it is complete. It is for my family. Come back in a few days.

He turned to drag himself back into his workspace, smearing cheese into his teeth with dirty, tired fingers.

Wait! Adara grabbed the old man’s shoulder, bony and sunken. He was an echo of a man, coming back more faded each time he attempted to speak, to live, and to carry on. How could he think a piece of his crude metalwork—horseshoes and nails—could convince his family to come home?

Please, Aamir. Come to my home tonight and dine with my family. We have plenty to go around. I am the last child at home now. Sixteen and unmarried, she said, throwing her hands into the air, what a disgrace I am! Maybe my parents will perk up when they hear I have a special male visitor coming to call on me. She nudged the man’s frail side with her elbow.

Besides, it has been so long since I’ve heard one of your fairy stories. My father says he doesn’t like to put fanciful ideas into my head with magic, but I know he’s always enjoyed your tales.

Aamir mumbled something under his breath and pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. A soft piece of cheese from his fingers rolled across the skin he touched, making him look even more disheveled and grimy than ever.

The last child at home, he said, almost in a whisper. I remember my last little jewel, always dancing around the kitchen. Now off with a young doctor, far away in Lahari. Eloped a year ago. Remember your parents when you are gone, yes Adara? He waggled his knobby index finger at her.

Yes, of course. How could I forget? They raised me, she said, studying Aamir. She hadn’t seen any of his children in years. Not even his son Isa, who was only a few years older than she. They had always talked about running away together when she became of age—getting married, exploring the world. But then the war started, he was whisked away to wander the world without her. Since then, there were no letters, no visits, no anything for five whole months.

The man’s cobwebby voice brought her from her own selfish despair and back into his nightmare of not one, but six losses of both children and spouse.

You would be surprised, my little pearl, how easy it is to trade an old life for a new one. And for those left behind, living off memories alone is enough to make any man starve.

Adara shook off the feeling of darkness that accompanied the old man’s words, and focused again on her invitation. All the more reason to feed you, my dear friend.

Aamir laughed, licking the last bit of cheese from his fingers. Not today, he said.

She frowned, about to protest.

Ah, ah, ah, Miss Adara, the old man smiled, his skin stretching like cheesecloth over a jar. I did not say no, I only said not today.

When will you come, then? she asked, starting to grow impatient. She still had to sell the rest of the bread in her basket and take orders from the rest of the village before the day was over.

It has already been such a long time since you came over to visit my family. Years, even, she continued, fighting the urge to scratch her legs, which were growing hot under her thick skirts. The desert village of Haidell was anything but cool at the noon hour.

Three suns from today. My most beautiful metal work will be done by then, and I will bring it to the feast, he said. He hobbled down his steps, taking as long on one step as Adara would take on ten.

I’ll see you in three days, then, she called, readjusting the breadbasket on the crook of her elbow. Be there at sundown.

Oh and Adara? he said, looking over his shoulder. I know what people are saying about me. They think I’m crazy. And maybe I am. He paused, the sadness in his words hanging in the air. But, he continued, your parents have taught you well, and I know how much my wife appreciated their friendship when she was still with us. And I appreciate yours even more now. Thank you for the bread.

Goodbye, Aamir. I’m looking forward to your stories!

Don’t worry, I’ll bring some magic with me, he said, not realizing the power of his words. He blew her a kiss and his frail figure disappeared behind the folds of dusty cloth.

#

That next night, Aamir couldn’t fall asleep. The desert wind seemed to whisper the names of his five children to him. Every time he was close to falling into slumber, their faces flashed behind his eyelids.

Throwing off his blankets, he stalked to the fireplace and roused the flames from their rest. If I’m not getting any sleep tonight, neither are you, he said, stoking the fire with a metal poker.

While he waited for the flames to grow in size and heat, Aamir sat in a rocking chair with the bowl of trinkets in his lap, as he did almost every night.

Oh Kiara, my little dancer, he whispered to a gold ring. Why did you have to marry without telling me?

He dropped the piece back into the bowl, and his hand returned with a small metal airplane.

My strong solider, Isa. You would have been so happy with Adara. She will no doubt be betrothed to another before either of us receives word from you. You used to be her confidant. He dropped the plane with extra vigor into the bowl, sighing. Piece after piece, he reflected on his children, and their faraway lives. 

Last but not least, he pulled a shiny hairpin from his pocket and rubbed it in between his fingers. It glittered in the firelight, and the shape of the dragonfly glowed as he brought it to his lips for a kiss.

My sweet wife Sana. You were the mold that held us all together. Everything fell apart when you left this world.

With delicate hands, he placed the pin into the bowl and moved the trinkets into the fireplace. He sat in his chair staring as the metal objects became soft in the heat, and his family began to meld together again.

#

A heavy thud against his door jolted Aamir from his nap. He had dozed off while waiting for the golds and bronzes to melt and prepare to be forged. The metal over the fire was bubbling, but the windows still showed darkness and moonlight outside.

Just a moment, Aamir mumbled, joints in his knees and back popping as he approached the door. Can I help you? He asked through the cracks in the old wood. It’s the middle of the—

Before he could finish, a sharp hiss of wind blew the door open, scraping it against the floor and slapping it into the wall.

Sana, the wind hissed, pulling the man out of the doorway.

Aamir held his forearm up to his eyes, shielding himself from the desert dust that whipped through the air and into his shack. 

What do you want? Who are you? the old man asked. His feet were frantic for purchase on the loose dirt and sand. The wind pushed and pulled him up his stairs, toward the darkness.

Sana, the wind hissed again, louder this time.

The moving air flapped against Aamir’s ears, blocking out all other sound. His heart pounded in his chest at the mention of his wife’s name. A dust devil formed around the old man, swirling around his eyes, sand filling his hair and nostrils.

Are you she? Aamir yelled above the wind, coughing as he spoke.

Yes, the wind responded. The s sound was elongated in every word spoken, slow as a serpent’s tongue.

Aamir covered his ears with shaking hands. What do you want? Have you come to take me with you at last?

Aamir fell to his knees, frightened at the voice of death that approached his very doorway.

Use this. The locket, was all the wind urged, ignoring his questions.

A deep black and purple smoke rose from the ground forming a small circle next to Aamir’s crouched figure. All at once, the wind died down. Aamir felt around on the ground, looking for something to hold onto. His eyes were still filled with sand.

Send the girl. Bring them back. The voice was calmer now, pleading with him.

Just as the wind spoke again, Aamir’s hands closed around something cold and metallic, and the violet smoke was sucked away almost the second his flesh touched the metal. A small forging hammer lay there in the dirt, carved with gold inscriptions in a language Aamir didn’t recognize. 

How did she know about the locket he planned to forge with the melted trinkets? How could she guess his juvenile hope that it would somehow bring his family back together?

I will. I promise! Sana?

A gentle but strong wind started up again. It moved under Aamir’s feet and carried him back into his home, back to his fireplace, and back to the bubbling metal. Though no flesh was visible, the touch of the wind—of Sana—was familiar and warm to Aamir.

Soon, the wind whispered as it left Aamir for good.

I will do your will, Sana, Aamir said, still shaking. He grabbed the tongs off of his worktable and removed the boiling metal from the fire with more speed than his body had executed in many years. 

He poured the molten metal into the mold he had manufactured for it and began his work, the small hammer emitting curious green sparks with each hit he made.

#

The third sun came without delay, beckoning Aamir from his underground home to respond to Adara’s invitation. But still, the small man hammered at his workbench with purpled circles under his eyes. The last few nights without sleep had taken a toll on him, and his limbs looked frailer than ever. Even so, he cracked a smiled at his finished work with a sense of pride.

Sana, you would be so proud, Aamir whispered to the locket that lay on the table before him. It was small, round, and gold. Metal designs that took painstaking precision with the small hammer and metal tools adorned its swirling surface.

You all will be proud, he said, cheerfully hobbling to a small nightstand by his grungy mattress. He kneeled before an image of his family, and traced the outside of the cracked frame before slipping a piece of paper and the locket into his trousers. He straightened his body up as tall as he could muster, and made his way down the dirt road to Adara’s home.

A silvery-green light glowed through the fabric of his pants, barely noticeable in what light was left of the early evening. 

#

At last, I am to meet the gentleman caller my lovely daughter has invited to our—

Adara’s father swung open the front door of the sizable estate to see a wrinkled man with a filthy white tunic before him.

Hello, Jacob, Aamir said, stepping past the man and onto the ornate tile floor of his foyer.

Oh, um, hello Aamir. I wasn’t expecting you, Jacob said, startled. His gray mustache twitched in confusion. Does one of our doorknobs need replacing again?

With quick feet, Adara made her way down the stairs and slipped her arm through the crook of Aamir’s elbow. No father, she laughed, Aamir is my guest for tonight.

Jacob gaped, but Aamir cut him off before he could protest.

Do not worry my old friend, I am not here to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage, she simply invited me to share a meal with your family, he said, shuffling along into the dining room with Adara in tow.

Jacob frowned and let out a nervous chuckle. I apologize for my presumptuousness. Please excuse my wife tonight—she is away visiting her mother. And feel free to take a seat in the—

I know where it is! Aamir called over his shoulder. Though you’d think I’d have trouble finding my way around after not having been invited for a visit in five years, he whispered to Adara while he patted her forearm.

#

When the dessert course of chocolate-covered macadamia nuts were placed before him on the low table, Aamir didn’t think he could manage to take another bite of food or his stomach would happily explode. Happy and warm from drinking his fill of wine, Aamir’s arms were animated and akimbo as he acted an ancient desert legend to Adara and her father.

"And then the daring