Free Valley of Decision by Lynne Gentry

hand upon the wall painting of the child with the outstretched arms and let the bottom fall out from beneath the life she’d so carefully guarded. After spinning for what seemed like an eternity in a washing machine, Lisbeth’s head broke the water’s surface. She took in huge gulps of air. The saccharine stench of death assaulted her nostrils. “Papa!” She tugged at the reassuring weight on her wrist and Papa surfaced, sputtering and eyes shining.
    â€œAmazing!” His exuberance echoed in the well’s chamber. “What a rush.” Rush. Rush.
    â€œShhh. We don’t know who could be up there.” Their necks instantly jackknifed toward the moonlight.
    â€œNo rope,” Papa whispered. “And no one to pull us out.”
    â€œTime travel is not an exact science.” What else had she miscalculated? What if she couldn’t find Maggie? She quelled the fear that had followed her through the portal. “Hang on to this ledge. I’ll climb up and throw you a rope.” Unstrapping her pack, she hoisted it to the ledge.
    Several painful minutes later her arms were burning from her assent. With a bit more effort than it took the night Barek hadhauled her and Maggie out of the cistern, she flung herself over the lip of the well. A hollow gourd dangled from a long rope tied to the crossbeam. She untied the gourd and dropped the rope down to Papa. It took about thirty minutes and every ounce of her strength to haul their gear to safety and raise Papa up the slick walls.
    â€œDid you notice the trowel marks in the cement?” He swung one of his long legs over the lip. “Excellent craftsmanship.”
    â€œPapa, this isn’t an archaeological expedition.” This trip Lisbeth had thought to bring the appropriate clothing. She handed him Aisa’s tunic. “Try to stay focused.”
    â€œSorry. You’re right.”
    They took turns standing guard while the other slipped behind the well and did a quick change. When Lisbeth emerged clad in her tunic, Papa was standing at the edge of the street staring into the distance like a Bedouin sheepherder come to town for the first time.
    â€œThe reconstructed Phoenician metropolis is even more breathtaking than I imagined.” Awe radiated from his expression. “Not a fragment of a faded fresco. Not an artist rendition based on estimated measurements, but real brick and mortar.” He ran his fingers lightly over the stones of the tenement building. “Being here”—he turned to her, tears in his eyes—“puts flesh upon what I have only known as bones.”
    He hesitated and then said, “Your mother will want to see me, right?”
    She kissed his leathery cheek. “More than anything.”
    They wove through the alleys that led toward the wealthier part of the city. Streets that once bustled with life were somber as a tomb and just as noxious. Corpses were stacked two and three high at every intersection. Lisbeth clutched the bag of medical supplies slung over her shoulder and kept focused on reaching her goal. These people and their medical needs were not her problem.According to history, the plagues eventually flamed out. Eradicating measles and typhoid sooner would require that she put herself out there again, invest in changing the past. She’d tried that. Twice. And both times the past had resolutely refused to budge from its destructive course. She couldn’t go through the pain of thinking she could save Cyprian and the church again. This trip was her last. She intended to get in, gather her family, and get out before she lost another piece of her heart.
    Pale streaks of light showed Byrsa Hill. Papa halted, his eyes wide. “Look, over there. Something’s happened.” Papa started toward the scores of scarecrow-thin pedestrians, hunched and shuffling en masse along the broad avenue leading to the Forum. Each person had a cloth tied over his or her