"Karen, it's time for the girl to be fed."

"So take her to her mother. I'm buried in paperwork here."

"Then she'll have to wait."

The nurse went about caring for the other babies in their bassinets, readjusting blankets, picking a fussy one up to calm him with gentle bouncing and sympathy.

"What is with you and that kid?" Karen asked, looking up from the pile in front of her. "She's not contagious or anything." Disgusted, Karen got up and moved to the smaller than normal girl.

"She doesn't like me."

"Now that is just plain ridiculous." Karen picked up the tiny bundle and held her close. "You're imagining things."

"I am not! Any time I get near her, she shrieks like a banshee. She never does that for you."

Karen was smiling at the sweet, soft green eyes that held hers so firmly. "Maybe she can tell you don't like her."

"I never said that. I don't treat her any differently than you do. But she doesn't like me."

Karen brushed past April on her way to the nursery door. As their shoulders met, the child's face changed. The beautiful eyes closed and the mouth opened in a quiet cry.

"See, she doesn't want me near her."

"It's a baby. She doesn't know anything but comfort and discomfort. And she's not comfortable right now; she's hungry. I'm taking her to her mother."

"Go ahead. That woman is a freak anyway. She keeps lighting that incense - it's awful. Poor kid."

The doctors thought it was too much "experimentation" by the aging hippie parents. Not tracking like other infants, Thyme's eyes would settle and fix, seemingly glazed. They never realized the truth. Thyme could see, really see, to the depths of whatever she gazed at. Maybe it was too much "experimentation", but the surface would dissolve, and she would see the truth underneath.

The television held no interest for her, nor did other children. Three before her parents heard her speak, she had unsettled hundreds of people. No one can have their soul viewed in comfort. Of course, they didn't know what was happening, they only knew it was "eerie" or "creepy", and got out of her sight as soon as they could. Others would laugh at their reaction to a toddler, at least until they encountered Thyme themselves. Then the jokes stopped.

Sitting cross-legged in the grass of her front yard, Thyme slipped into the haze that so often fell in her mind.

"What is she doing out there?"

"Sitting. she likes storms." It was her mother's voice, and someone else she didn't recognize.

"It's dangerous out there. She could wind up with pneumonia, or be struck by lightening."

Thyme laughed deep in her chest. How could a storm harm her?

"What am I supposed to do about it?"

"She's only three, Sharon. Make her come inside. She's not the adult here."

"She's certainly not a child, Margaret."

"She's three!"

The strange voice was yelling now. There was no reason to yell. She stood and walked in to the house, into the kitchen where the stranger sat with her mother. Rainwater dripping on the linoleum, Thyme looked at the woman. Then looked deeper. Then deeper, till she hit bottom.

The stranger blanched, her eyes darting around the small room. Over and over she tried to resettle in her seat, but still the child stared. She knew. The ridiculous child knew. How could this happen? How could she . . .? Stuttering, she pushed away from the table and rose to leave, knocking over the chair.

"She's not right, Sharon. She's not right. You need to get her some help."

"She doesn't seem to have the problem," her mother replied, calmly watching the stranger as she ran from the house.

Thyme turned and followed her out the front door, watching as she resumed her place on the lawn, rain still pouring.

As the haze dispersed, Thyme thought back. She hadn't known good or bad then, just like and didn't like. And she didn't like that woman. Lifting her face to the rain, she waited for the thunder.

Memory was a slick thing for Thyme. People imprinted and natural occurrences, not events or occasions. Sometime after the storm, Thyme heard her parents talking intently about an upcoming "alignment" She was supposed to be napping in her room, but the door was open, the walls thin.

"Then we can't go, Sharon. There's no one to keep her."

"We wouldn't leave her anyway."

"You wouldn't. I think we both need the break. And the alignment is perfect." There was actually hope in him. "We'll hitch to the festival, sleep under the planets together, be part of the alignment itself. They'll bring us back into universal harmony. It'll be just like before."

"Before? Is that how you mark time now, before and after? You wanted her, Frank, more than I did. Now she's some human sundial."

"I didn't mean that."

"Oh, yes, yes you . . ."

"I DID NOT!" Her father's voice shook the walls, and her stomach. There was silence for a breathe or two, then a much quieter, "She's our daughter and I love her. I do. But you know what happens to people, even to us. We need to get away." Something shifted inside him, turned smooth, oily. "Don't you remember the last time we slept out, that eclipse. And we both enjoyed ourselves."

Suddenly, it was secretive, insular, wrapping around her parents, but leaving her outside. It wasn't his voice. It was inside him, his most desperate desire.

"I remember, Frank. That was the night Thyme joined us. You said the eclipse would make a child strong, powerful. And she is. She's remarkable, Frank. Our daughter is . . . "

"They don't know what she is, and neither do we, Sharon. I've been through everything I can find on psychic talents, and it's not in a single one. Oh, you'll find empaths, but that's not what she does." He signed, and Thyme imagined his body collapsing inward as he did. "Maybe the eclipse wasn't a good idea."

"You mean she wasn't. Well, you're wrong." Her mother sounded as if she were puttering out some nasty medicine. "She's gifted. And I'm not leaving her behind. Besides, maybe the alignment would help her, give her some inner harmony. I don't think she's felt much of that."

"Then you will go?" The hope was back.

"If we take her with us, I'll go."

The next morning, the cycle of walking along a roadside followed by a short ride in a strange car began, a cycle that seemed eternal. After too many abrupt halts, demands of "Get Out!", her mother took her aside to talk while her father stood at road's edge.

"Thyme, sweetheart, we need you to do something for us. You don't like the walking, do you?"

The long, red hair, glinting gold in the sharp rays obscured her solemn eyes as Thyme shook her head. Gently, her mother brushed the strands of fire from her face, looking her in the eye, something others could not stand for longer than a few seconds.

"You know that some people get upset when you look at them. Your gift frightens some people. So I need you to concentrate on looking out the side windows. Okay?"

Thyme nodded. What else could she do? She hadn't meant to frighten anyone. They were all just so . . . new.

The next few days were a blur of fast moving scenery, green hills to gray rocks to beige sand. The festival site was a relief of bright colors and sounds, full of people who dressed like her parents, in a riot of bright patterns. It was the first time she could remember her parents blending in with any group.

But the relief was short lived. Before that afternoon faded, people were pointing again, peering at her, then quickly moving away. Her father yelled again; her mother cried again. Thyme knew the truth, for good this time, and lost hope.

When her mother came to talk again, Thyme fixed her eyes on the sand and nodded over and over. Then she sat and watched the light move, creep on the surface of the dirty white sand. Old, it whispered, old and far and long and tired.

That night, as darkness settled into the weary sand, her parent's warned her not to move from her blanket, and disappeared into the crowd. The crowd soon followed, into a night so dark, not even shapes moved in it. The wind carried stray sounds, but soon it stilled as well.

Not sleepy, Thyme laid face up on the blanket, gazing at the points of light. Her small chest rose and fell, as if asleep, but her eyes never closed. The stars swelled, then grew four, six, eight arms, then grasped other arms grasping for them. The glowing crystal lace laid over the night in sharp relief, moving down, inch by inch, wrapping Thyme in thick arms of white and pink and pale blue. When the glare grew unbearable, she closed her eyes against it, only for it to penetrate her lids.

Then the filling began, deep in her abdomen. Like a balloon, large gasps of something came from the lace, soaking into her, expanding, but never escaping. She swallowed convulsively, desperately trying to quell the eternal wail that fought at her throat, when sleep finally slid over her.

Morning sun startled her awake, still solitary. And still the fullness. No pressure any longer, but something had changed. The truth had changed. She was changed.

Unsure what to do, but sick of staring at sand, Thyme rose and made her way into the small marketplace that had risen in the desert, tents and camps encircling it. she thought only to look around in peace, with no one to distract, to disturb. But among the tie-dye and beads, incense and other familiar smells, she saw a woman, and was suddenly compelled to speak.

"You shouldn't have come."

The round woman spun, searching for the voice.

"You don't belong here. You should leave."

Realizing the sound was nearer the ground, she looked over the front counter at a small, red-haired child, with huge green eyes.

"Where are your parents?"

"Somewhere. I'm going to tell them."

She meant to turn back to her jewelry, but something in the girl's voice held her. Or maybe it was the eyes.

"Tell them what?" she challenged, hands lost between the folds of waist and hip.

"The truth."

She knew something wasn't right. This child felt wrong. What was it?

"And then no one will buy your things."

Cold, hard, it gripped her ribs, held her breath captive. No one knew. She'd been to hundreds of these festivals, her "mystical" ornaments moving as fast as she could "craft" them. But if those freaks found out she wasn't . . .

"Go where you want to be," the small voice continued. "Go where they don't know. Just go."

A child, speaking to her like that, giving her commands. She wanted to grab it's arms, threaten to tell the parents they gave birth to a thief, snatching things from the stalls while everyone was still asleep. They'd be embarrassed, leave in shame. But her feet wouldn't move, and she couldn't seem to make even a squeak.

"I'm telling."

The bizarre thing turned and walked away, the woman's eyes fixed on her retreating form. Not until the sight disappeared could the woman move again.

"Ridiculous child, thinking she can scare me," the woman muttered as she started packing the more fragile pieces in bubble wrap before placing them in the hard sided luggage stashed under the counter.

Thyme was rolling up her blanket, still thinking about that nasty woman, when she realized that she hadn't "looked" at her. Before, she had always fixed, and looked, but . . .

"Are you ready to go, kid?"

Right. He'd been right all along, and Sharon would know that now. He was more important than anything.

Relief. Her baby was okay, and now they could go home.

Thyme hadn't looked at her parents when she knew. She forced her eyes to focus on the blanket she was wrestling, but she still knew. She's always had to see someone to see. But now, now everything would change.

It always came feet first, the soil colliding with itself, rebounding only to impact again, the thunder filtering through. Most believed it to be slow poke sound, trailing fleeter lightening in the air. Thyme knew better.

Not a solitary car or truck had slowed, let alone stopped with the offer of a hitch. At her mother's insistence, they had set out immediately on foot. That had been over five hours ago. Less than half an hour before, the paper lantern had dropped over the sun, softening the light, while prickling her exposed arms and legs.

"A storm is coming." she said, her voice flat.

"Can you even think of something positive?" her father had snapped. Her mother's hand on her elbow finished the exchange.

If he'd be positive, she could. But truth didn't change, and neither would he. It soaked him, screamed at her. Mixed with hte pull that was her mother, Thyme was bogged down, and she couldn't cut her way loose. Before, she focused on something else, something inanimate, and the truth would slide away. It didn't work anymore.

As the thunder crept up her legs, she walked closer to her mother's side, seeking shelter unaware. The soft, warm arm settling around her shoulders sent a chill down to meet the sound in her stomach, and tears leaked from fixed eyes. Contact intensified the pain that was her mother. Thyme drowned in it, no room left for her.