Award-winning storyteller Clark Burbidge presents the first book in a thrilling young-adult fantasy adventure, StarPassage: The Relic, a clue-studded journey through time, space, and history that builds mystery and suspense with every page turned.

Two teenage siblings find themselves desperate for answers when a mysterious relic reveals its age-old secrets and power.

Tim and Martie Carson are the only ones who can save their family from a downward spiral fueled by their parent’s struggles with PTSD and depression. When they realize that an ancient relic discovered under mysterious circumstances holds the key to unlocking answers hidden in the past, the siblings embark on a race against time to learn the relic’s secrets while avoiding the Trackers, sinister shadowy figures doomed to haunt history and drawn to possess the relic for their own evil purposes.

Travel through history with the Carson family as they struggle to understand the relic’s secrets. In their race against time can they decipher the clues and piece together the puzzle containing the answers they desperately seek? Or will they be trapped forever by the evil forces relentlessly pursuing them?

Excerpt

Prologue

Fugitive’s Drift

The young couple struggled through the shoulder-high, thorny brush. They were poorly dressed for the demands of the terrain. He wore thin cotton pants, a short-sleeve shirt, and thin-soled, leather, dress shoes. She had a modest narrow cotton summer dress and slip with low-heeled, round-toed shoes. Their outfits would have been practical on the streets of any 1930s-era American city like Chicago or New York but were decidedly out of place in the late 1870s South African backcountry. The brush tore at their clothing, quickly reducing it to ragged threads.

There were no established paths. The couple’s desperate race flowed down steep gullies the locals called dongas. Tumbling as often as running, their progress was directed more by gravity and the human instinct to survive than by any conscious goal. They held between them an unusual shiny object that looked as out of place as their clothing. Each grasped a single point of the odd-looking relic, which slowed their progress and caused them to move in tandem. But neither seemed willing to release their vice-like grip.

The couple was not alone. Dozens of others fled through the maze of rough, unforgiving ravines. The people who struggled around them were dressed in the red or blue tunics of a military force. These companions in flight were mostly on foot. The few on horseback appeared to have little advantage.

The fugitives were remnants of a once proud British Regiment with attached native contingent troops. The day’s action would become known as the British army’s worst historical defeat at the hands of a native force. The soldiers were no longer an army, rather they were reduced to one’s and two’s and were being systematically hunted to extinction by a determined foe. They were desperate refugees—no rank, no discipline, no order—a mindless mass, racing for their lives. A race few would win this day.

None of those who crossed the young couple’s path paid attention to anyone or anything. In fact, the young couple went completely unnoticed. They had joined the exodus, scrambling down the steep, eroded dry wash that rolled off the high ground toward the Buffalo and Tuguela Rivers hundreds of feet below and several miles from where it had all started, or ended: the soon-to-be historic, rocky outcropping the natives called Isandlwana.

[Text Break]

“How did they find us so quickly?” the woman cried. She tripped and fell, opening a deep gash in her knee and tearing her dress. Her companion helped her up, leaving untended crimson ribbons flowing from a freshly hemorrhaging wound.

She looked up at him, tears leaving dirty trails on her cheeks.

“We must keep moving, Jenny,” the young man said, sounding desperate. “Medical aid will have to wait. They’re gaining.”

“Why is it not working, Henry?”

“It will work; we just need to keep moving until it does. Do not let go no matter what happens.”

A horse came crashing through the brush, causing them to dive to their left to avoid being trampled. An officer leaned forward on the horse, his red tunic, white belt, and matching shoulder strap impossible to miss against the dull-brown countryside. He appeared badly wounded and clung to his horse. The officer spurred his regal beast onward. Stains of blood and deep wounds were visible across the noble animal’s haunches as it charged past, trying to pick its way through the pathless wilderness. The cause of its desperate flight suddenly poured into the ravine.

“He has no chance,” Henry whispered. “The Zulus move faster than a horse in this terrain.”

The Zulu warriors were strong and untiring as they effortlessly closed on the horseman. Barefoot, clad only with cloths around their waists, they seemed immune to the thorny brush. They moved like antelope, but with the hunting skills of a hungry pride of lions. They were the horns of the buffalo.

The British troops had been engaged by the main body of the Zulu force while their flanks were besieged from every side. The encirclement maneuver was a deadly Zulu strategy when successfully employed, and today it had worked to perfection. The horns of the buffalo had closed around and overwhelmed the British lines from behind.

A dozen warriors converged on the horseman just ten yards from where Jenny and Henry sat hidden in the brush. Henry watched in horror as the doomed soldier bravely withdrew his revolver from its holster and fired, dropping one of his pursuers. He fired again, wounding a second who fell back. But there were too many. Two more shots rang out, but they did nothing to stem the human tide, rising around the horse and rider. It was over in seconds. The Zulu warriors pulled the screaming soldier from his mount, stripped off his red tunic, and finished their work. One put on the tunic while the others held aloft asagi short spears and hardwood knobkerries in celebration. The Zulus moved on unaware of the young couple’s presence.

Henry pulled Jenny to her feet, and they continued to flee down the brushy ravines toward the shallow river crossing, which would later be named the Fugitive’s Drift. Hundreds of soldiers would lose their lives, desperately seeking refuge on the far banks. The air was full of the screams and stench of death that accompany the final stages of an overwhelming, one-sided battle.

Henry stopped to listen to another sound. Heavy, deliberate crashing echoed through the brush.

“Come on, Jenny. They are right behind us. We need to get to the river. We cannot outrun the Zulus, but the others are slower.”

Henry spotted a group of large, shadow-faced men break through into a small clearing just ten yards behind them. The apparent leader, who wore a weathered, sweat-stained, cowboy hat, pointed in their direction. “There it is. Grab it.”

“They are here,” she screamed.

Henry pulled Jenny forward through another patch of dense brush. The two-inch needles clung to their clothes and tore at their skin with every step. Their pursuers closed the distance unaffected by the thorny barrier.

“They are right behind us,” Jenny cried.

“Do not let them touch you or all is lost.”

The closest pursuer lunged at the couple, missing by inches, while ripping a handful of tattered material from Jenny’s dress.

Another picked up a discarded asagi and threw it, piercing Henry’s right thigh. He stumbled and fell. “Nooooo . . .”

Jenny grabbed his arm, but his greater weight and momentum pulled her down with him. As they fell, the ground seemed to disappear beneath them. Henry realized they had burst out of the brush onto a nearly forty-five-degree dirt slope. Gravity pulled them down the long, steep incline toward the river. Henry lost his grip on the relic as they summersaulted toward the boulder-strewn river.

Coming to a painful stop in the shallows, he sat up. “Jenny!”

He examined his wound, which was soaking his pants with a dark, spreading stain. Henry attempted to stand but could put little weight on his injured leg and fell back. The spear that had pierced him lay nearby. He grasped it and attempted to use it as a crutch. His attempt was vain, and he fell back, splashing into the shallow water.

“Jenny, if I cannot see you that means you held on, so we still have a chance. Jenny, where are you?” he said, his voice wavering.

Henry heard no response, but his call attracted the attention of a group of Zulus about forty yards downstream. One of the Zulu warriors noticed him sitting in the shallow water and held up his four-foot, oval-shaped, black-and-white patterned, cowhide shield. He called out what sounded like a command and pointed at Henry with his asagi. The warriors turned in unison and charged toward Henry, closing the distance in seconds.

“Jenny!” he called again, hoping she was conscious after the long drop.

Henry looked up and saw the group of tall, shadow-faced figures, standing at the top of the hill. The cowboy motioned toward him with his chin, and they began their own pursuit down the hillside. He and Jenny were in real trouble now. They could no longer move fast enough to outpace the shadow men. However, his immediate danger lay with the rapidly approaching Zulu warriors. They would kill him without discussion, hesitation, or thought.

“Jenny,” he called with desperation in his voice.

An isijula throwing spear bit deeply into the ground next to his leg. He lurched backward and crawled feebly upriver, using the asagi to pull himself forward. The lead warrior was only ten yards away when Henry felt a hand close around his wrist and guide it to a pointed, metallic object. His fingers closed around the object, and the approaching Zulus stopped dead in their tracks. Most of the warriors fell to their knees, their voices full of fear as they shouted words Henry could not begin to understand. Others prostrated themselves on the ground while the remainder retreated several steps, terror etched on their faces.

“Move now!” Jenny ordered, shaking Henry back to reality.

“Right.” He shook his head to clear his thoughts as she helped him stand up. With Jenny and the spear-crutch they retreated thirty yards upriver, staying in the shallows to avoid leaving a trail of blood or footprints for the Zulus to follow. They could move no farther and collapsed together.

The warriors, recovered from their initial shock, advanced carefully to where they had last seen Henry, swinging their spears violently through the empty air and stabbing at the ground.

“Thank you for getting me moving. They seem very thorough.”

“It is still not working,” Jenny said, looking at the relic they both clung to tightly. “This needs to end. I cannot endure this further!”

“Agreed. I hope you don’t mind if we return it to the old couple at the antique shop.”

“Sounds good to me,” Jenny said. “The relic can take care of itself. It does not need us to find the next owner. Whether the shop owners want it or not, promise me we are done.”

“I promise. The risk is not worth it.” They were both exhausted. He didn’t know how much longer either of them could last.

Jenny sighed and looked at him with obvious relief. “Our luck definitely seems to have run out. Its purpose for us must be fulfilled.”

“At the least, it seems to be ready to choose a new owner. We have learned the danger in trying to force our will upon it.”

“You told me the old lady in the shop warned you to be careful how you use it,” Jenny said.

“Yes, she seemed overly dramatic, but now we understand why.”

Henry flinched when she touched his leg wound. “Are you all right?”

He grimaced. “I think my traveling is done for the day. What about you?”

“I need to stop the bleeding,” she said, sounding drowsy.

With effort she stood and propped his leg on a boulder above the water. She then tore several pieces off her dress and used them to bind his wound. Then she sank to her knees in a daze. Henry rolled over and used another strip to bind a gash on Jenny’s knee.

“There,” he said. “That ought to do for now.”

Jenny laid back in the shallow water and gazed at the hill above them with hollow eyes. “I need to rest.”

“You have lost a lot of blood,” Henry said with concern.

“We need to get home,” she whispered. “They are halfway down the hill, and I do not think we can escape this time.”

Henry glanced up and confirmed that the shadow figures had covered half the distance from the top at a fast walk.

“We have done all we can. The relic needs to do the rest.” Henry cradled her head above the flowing water. “Was it worth it?”

“Probably not the best time to ask. But keep me talking. That helps.”

Henry forced a smile. “It did bring us together. I am grateful for that.” Gently, he squeezed her hand with affection, and she returned the gesture.

“If they come much closer, we will have to let go.” Jenny sounded resigned. “Then at least they will not get it.”

Henry held her hand tighter. “We still have time. It will work. It has to.”

Jenny’s eyes fluttered. “Will you miss them? The adventures I mean.”

“Perhaps someday,” Henry said. “But not today.”

“It has been a new beginning for us.” She seemed to muster a little strength and smiled up at him.

“Yes.” He smiled and kissed her forehead. “That is the important thing. Do not let go. When we are old and gray, maybe we will laugh about how foolish we were today.”

“Not likely,” she whispered and gave him a thin smile. “But there are a lot of other memories that will warm our hearts.”

A surge of affection for Jenny washed over him. Had it only been four weeks since the relic brought them together? He had to lean closer to hear what she said next.

“Thank you for finding me.”

“We found each other,” he corrected, pressing his cheek to hers. Tears burned the back of his eyes. “Hang on now. Stay with me.”

The sound of a snorting horse caught his attention, and his head snapped up. Two horsemen cascaded down the hill toward the river.

The Zulus, who had lost interest in their search for him, were drifting back in the direction from which they had come until they spotted the mounted riders. Now they sprinted to intercept the escaping men. The soldiers rode at full gallop into the stream, but were slowed as they moved into deeper water.

Henry sucked in a deep breath. He knew they would never reach the opposite side in time. The men were still within range of the pursuing warriors’ throwing spears. A dozen missiles flew, several finding their marks. Both riders were knocked from their mounts. Several of the Zulu warriors waded into the river to retrieve the wounded soldiers and finish their deadly work.

“That could easily have been us.” Henry winced at the gruesome sight.

“It still could be. As soon as we let go, they will see us,” Jenny said in a breathy whisper. “We hold on and the cowboy gets us. We let go and the Zulus do. No good choices.”

Henry checked the progress of the shadow figures. They were a mere thirty yards away. “It is time to let go, Jenny. They will stop as soon as we do.”

She looked at him and touched his face. “It was worth it.”

“Yes, every second.” They both loosened their grip on the relic.

The shadow men approached with wicked smiles. The cowboy sneered and reached for the artifact. “This time there ain’t no escape.”

“Wait!” Jenny squeezed Henry’s hand as the world around them began to fade into a gray mist. “It is happening,” she said. “We made it!”

Chapter I

Casualties of War

Major Jim Carson rode in the left rear seat of the Humvee, a dozen vehicles back from the front of the convoy.

War’s a dirty business. Constant heat, dust, sand flies. The uncertainty wears on all of us. No battle lines. No routine milk runs.

Three weeks into his second Middle East deployment, elements of his National Guard unit were shepherding a supply convoy from the main logistics center to a smaller forward base of operations.

He wasn’t required to personally oversee this operation, but for some reason he’d been assigned by higher-ups to observe and report on the smaller base’s state of readiness. The command vehicle in which he rode had three other occupants. The driver was Pfc Billy Dilworth. Pfc Hernando Alvarez stood in the 50-cal. ring mount with only his waist down visible to Jim’s right. Both were on their first deployment. Their conversation was often laced with bravado and dreams of glorious victories.

That’ll last about another week.

First Sergeant Blaine Kelly occupied the front right shotgun seat. Blaine had control of the radio and the newly introduced Blue Force Tracker, essentially a laptop that illustrated the location of coalition forces, known bad guys, recent attacks, etc. It served as Jim’s connection to the unit and gave him the best view of the outside world.

Blaine had been in the unit before Jim and knew it inside out. He was also the closest, most trustworthy person Jim had ever known, except for his own wife. Jim, five years younger, relied on the vast combat experience of his forty-two-year-old First Sergeant.

Jim went the ROTC route, starting as a wet behind the ears 2nd Lieutenant and obtained a teaching certification. Blaine had come up the hard way, volunteering straight out of high school and re-enlisting for two additional three-year stints. After nine years Blaine left the military to pursue a lucrative opportunity in plant management for a medical device company. However, his commitment to serve his country ran deep.

After a year of civilian life Blaine had joined the Army National Guard. He worked his way up to First Sergeant by exemplifying the qualities of the modern army both in and out of combat. This success was paralleled by his civilian career. His integrity, attention to detail, interpersonal skills, and hard work paved the way. He had risen to regional vice president for the same company and had a half-dozen plant managers reporting to him.

Jim had always felt Blaine’s presence to be a blessing sent directly from on high. The man was the heart and soul of the unit.

The major glanced out the window, always watchful. I may make the decisions, but he makes the operation run, and my command decisions are better because of his input.

The noise, heat, and dust had kept the conversation in the Humvee to a minimum. Jim couldn’t shake a bad feeling about today’s operation. He should not be in the same vehicle as his First Sergeant—too much critical command structure in one target. But the unit’s vehicle options had been reduced by the extra maintenance demands of the harsh, desert environment and vehicle battle losses.

Jim finally broke the long silence. “First Sergeant, when was the last time recon was done on this route?”

“I talked with the recon team this morning, sir,” Blaine replied. “It was clear and secure two days ago.”

“That’s not a big comfort. Make sure Lt. Travis has his lead elements keep their eyes open.”

“Copy that, sir.” Blaine picked up the radio and passed on the major’s concern. After a brief conversation Blaine turned to Jim and said, “The lieutenant has eyes out front and on the flanks, sir.”

“Thank you, First Sergeant,” Jim said and turned to look out the left side of the Humvee. “Dilworth . . . Alvarez . . . on alert.”

“Roger that, sir,” both responded on their communication headsets.

“Probably unnecessary interference . . . just instinct, First Sergeant. Every pair of eyes in this convoy is doing what I’m doing right now, watching for trouble.”

“You got that right, sir.” Blaine gave Jim a thumbs up. “And there are a lot of street-smart eyes in this convoy.”

They looked at each other and smiled as the Humvee traveled another thirty feet.

Suddenly, Jim felt the vehicle lurch violently off the ground. A blinding flash and deafening roar numbed his senses. A dense fog filled his mind. His ears rang with shouting and small arms fire that seemed far away. Something slick and sticky covered his uniform.

His mind spiraled downward like a building collapsing inward. He called out for help, but sound could not clear the fog. His lips were unresponsive. A black, oily, mental undertow pulled him slowly downward. He fought it briefly and then succumbed. His brain carried him away into its last defense, the inner redoubt of unconsciousness. It was the last time he and Blaine ever spoke.

[Text Break]

Fourteen months later

Tim Carson was big for his sixteen years, just over six foot and broad shouldered. Weight-lifting and running with his dad had shaped him into a well-conditioned teen. He was handsome, but not strikingly so, with brown eyes and dishwater-blond hair cut just above his ears. But he was scared about what would come next. He cautiously approached the spare bedroom. He found his mom asleep, her tear-stained face red and puffy against the white, down pillow. Martie, his thirteen-year-old sister, appeared at his side.

“War does terrible things to people,” he whispered. “Sometimes the injuries you can see aren’t the worst ones. Our family is just as much a casualty as Dad.”

“Mom . . . Mom are you all right? Are you awake?” Tim said, touching her shoulder. No response. He knelt at the edge of the bed and tried to comprehend how life could have taken such a strange turn. “Why can’t we just be a family? Why did this have to happen?”

Tim thought about how their lives had turned upside down since his dad had returned from the Middle East.

At the time, Tim was hopeful. “Just having him back, even badly wounded, should be enough for us. At least he didn’t die over there.”

Martie knelt beside him. “Why is Mom so sad?”

“She’s worried about Dad. It’s really hard on her that he isn’t getting better.”

“But why isn’t Dad getting better?” Martie sounded scared. “He can walk again, and his arm is working pretty good.”

“That’s a tough one to answer,” Tim said.

Martie and Tim knew most of the story. Dad had been in the Army National Guard and in in his second deployment. His Humvee was closest to a buried, wire-triggered bomb when it exploded along the road. Dad had called it an IED—an Improvised Explosive Device. The Humvee had been ripped nearly in two and flipped on its side, killing three of his buddies. He was the only one who survived the attack.

But that’s all they knew. He refused to talk about it. Whenever they asked, Dad ignored their questions and would get a far-off look on his face. If they pushed too hard, he’d get in the car and drive off, sometimes not coming home until bedtime.

One time a few weeks ago, his dad had acted almost normal. While they were watching a football game, Tim eased his dad into a brief conversation.

“I was lucky to have been on the far side of the vehicle,” Dad had told him. “I still got hit by lots of fragments of metal, rock, and glass in my right side.” He pushed up his shirt sleeve and revealed a long scar. “My right arm and leg took the brunt of it.”

But when Tim tried to ask Dad about his feelings—about the invisible wound he carried around—he stopped talking and walked outside. The wound to his mind had done the most damage.

His physical wounds had been severe, and for a long time they weren’t sure Dad would live. Several operations were performed to remove the shrapnel and repair the damage it caused. After some physical therapy Dad was almost good as new. The doctors finally released him six months after the explosion.

“Do you think Dad’s changed?” Martie asked, interrupting Tim’s thoughts.

“He’s still our dad,” Tim said, trying to reassure her. “But he’s also a different person in ways he may not even understand. He—”

“I know. He gets angry easy, mostly over nothing. He and Mom fight all the time too. That never happened before.”

Tim nodded as more thoughts flooded his mind. It never gets physical, but words can leave serious wounds too.

Tim tried to explain. “The doctors said his injuries—the concussion, the operations, the pain medications—might affect Dad’s personality for a while.

“But he’s better now, isn’t he? He doesn’t have to go to the hospital all the time.”

“Yeah, I thought he’d be better by now too.”

Tim had been with his mom when the doctors talked about PTSD, which was short for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

“It’s hard to predict in cases like Jim’s when there has been severe trauma,” the doctor had said to his mom. “We strongly recommend your entire family participate in your husband’s therapy. There are group classes the whole family can attend with and without Jim that will help. We’ll monitor him regularly and ask that you contact us if there are any symptoms.”

“What should I look for,” his mom asked.

“Well, Mrs. Carson . . .” answered the doctor, scratching his chin. He pulled a folded paper out of his white, medical-coat pocket and handed it to Tim’s mother. “That is an important question. I recently made a list of usual symptoms for another patient and thought you might appreciate a copy. The difficulty with PTSD is the symptoms are nearly infinite and can vary based on the individual and the traumatic experiences absorbed. But the most common are there.”

His mom unfolded the paper, and he read the typed list over her shoulder.

Six major symptoms were listed:

Re-experiencing the traumatic event, often at night in the form of nightmares.

Increased anxiety, lack of trust, or emotional outbursts.

Intrusive and obsessive memories or flashbacks of the event that are upsetting and come at random times.

Physical reactions to the memories, including a pounding heart, tension, or sweating.

Loss of interest in normal life activities and a sense of detachment, feeling alone, or misunderstood.

Outbursts of anger, difficulty sleeping, guilt, or depression.

His mom nodded her head. “I recognize some of these. How long will they last?”

“They may be resolved in days or weeks, but in some patients they can last much longer,” the doctor explained. “PTSD is as real as any wound and needs to be treated. We need to work together to help your husband put these traumatic events into the past and move on.”

At first, Tim didn’t believe that PTSD was real, but the doctors were right. Over the next few months he witnessed several of the symptoms described. He did a lot of research on the Internet. He noticed some symptoms could play off each other and make his dad’s struggle more difficult. His dad had nightmares almost every night, which kept him from sleeping. So the lack of sleep made him tired and more easily anxious and upset.

“Let’s go into my room so we don’t wake Mom up,” Martie said.

“Good idea.”

They moved to her room down the hall and sat on the edge of Martie’s bed.

“Martie, the terrible thing Dad went through, his lack of sleep and reliving it over and over again in his mind, has changed how he thinks and acts.”

“Does he think it’s his fault?” his sister asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Guilt would make it more difficult to deal with. There’s something called survivor’s guilt. Dad might feel guilty that he lived and everybody else died. But I don’t really know how he feels because he won’t talk about it.”

“Is this how he’s always going to be?” Tears welled up in her eyes.

Tim shook his head and sighed. “I don’t know. Nobody knows. The doctors say with time and help, many people overcome PTSD, so I hope he’ll get better. We just need to hang in there until he does.”

“I miss Dad how he was.”

“Me too.”

“Is Mom okay? She seems sad all the time now. And she cries a lot.”

Tim pulled his kid sister to his side. He and Martie had always been close. The problems with their dad and mom had disrupted their lives, too, but it had also brought them closer.

“I dunno, sis. I’ve seen her taking medicine a lot. I think it’s getting harder for her to deal with things. She doesn’t get much sleep either.”

“Why did Dad have to go away tonight?” Tears streamed down Martie’s face and glistened in the low light from her bedside lamp. “What’s going to happen to us?”

He plucked a tissue out of the box on the bedside table and handed it to her.

“The doctors think they can help Dad, but they needed to take him to the hospital for observation and more therapy,” Tim explained. “They talked about doing more evaluations to try to help him get control of his nightmares and his anger and anxiety. I think they might want to keep him in the hospital for a while.”

“I heard Mom talking on the phone to Grandma yesterday,” Martie said, sniffing. “She said she was going to take a vacation. Where’s she going? I don’t want her to leave us.”

“I know, but she needs the rest. I don’t think she even knows where she’s going yet. But Grandma texted me and said she would be coming over and staying for a while.” Tim tried to sound calmer than he felt. “Let’s go downstairs and sit by the fire. I’ll nuke some popcorn, and we can watch a movie. Okay?”

Martie nodded and blew her nose. “The fire and popcorn sound okay, but I’m not in the mood for a movie.”

“Okay, your call.”

Instead of turning on the hall light in case it would wake up Mom, they felt their way through the dark hallway to the top of the stairs. Tim nearly stepped off into empty space, catching himself on the railing. With Martie clutching his hand, they moved quietly down the curved stairway to the living room where a dim lamp had been left on. He gazed at a picture fit for the cover of any popular December magazine issue.

A fully decorated Christmas tree stood in the far corner of the room. A few presents lay under the silver and gold sparkling tree. Martie plopped on the loveseat-sized sofa in front of the gas fireplace as Tim flipped on the switch. It almost looked like a real log fire. All of their stockings hung from the carved, white mantle. In addition to the loveseat, two high-back upholstered chairs sat on either side surrounding the low, mahogany coffee table. Deep-crimson drapes framed the two front windows with wooden dividers.

Before heading for the kitchen, Tim stopped in front of the Christmas tree and touched a few of the ornaments. Some he and Martie had made when they were kids, and others were old-fashioned glass treasures, gathered from garage sales and antique stores. His mom loved antiques. She said each ornament looked as if it had a mysterious story to tell. At the top of the tree sat a beautiful, eight-pointed, silver star that gleamed and shimmered as it reflected the fire.

Mom loved decorating the house and especially the tree for Christmas. But it was more than ornaments hanging on a tree. She always said it made the room feel different—special, spiritual.

Martie walked up beside him and sighed. “I love this room at Christmastime. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if one evening we saw Mary and Joseph cradling their newborn baby Jesus here when we walked in.”

He chuckled and kissed the top of her head. “Wouldn’t that be something? That’d be a Christmas we’d never forget. I could use a little Christmas spirit right now.”

They stood quietly, gazing at the lighted tree.

“Everyone says Dad is a hero, but he’s always been one to me,” Martie said. “Why can’t he see that too?”

“Maybe it’s not about what we see in him. Maybe it’s what he believes about himself.”

“I’d give anything to see him smile like he did before,” Martie said. “If I could only have one gift for Christmas, that’s what it would be.”

“Dad’s the one who received the Purple Heart, but we’re all casualties. Let’s just take this one day at a time and be prepared for a wild ride. Hopefully, you’ll see that smile soon.”

“But we’ll be together, right?”

Tim ruffled her hair. “Yep, every step.”

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About the Author

Clark Rich Burbidge was born and raised in the mountain valleys of the Rockies. He earned an MBA from the University of Southern California and a BS from the University of Utah. His finance career includes life as an investment banker and Chief Financial Officer, and his involvement in community and church service spans four decades. Clark and his sweetheart, Leah, live near Salt Lake City, Utah, where they enjoy outdoor activities such as mountain and road biking and sharing their lives with their blended family of ten children and eleven grandchildren. He and his wife enjoy traveling and such things as cycling and scuba diving, but when life and faith are enjoyed so completely there is no need to travel to find that which is already present.