He was rushing to the surface out of a dark, cold moving murk. His bald head burst through the surface of the cold water beneath a cool gray sky. He was swimming as if he had swum every day of his life, effortlessly treading water. He felt a snag beneath his feet and kicked himself around the tell-tale turbulence toward the western shore where some people stood. It was a cold late autumn day in northwestern Pennsylvania. He should have been hypothermic, but felt like he had just walked out of a hot tub and taken a cooling dunk in the river.

…Dude, you never even used to be able to swim until you came back the first time; could barely keep from sinking.

When he got to the circle of people, he noticed seven bodies: six white-faced warriors who had been scalped and a big dead war-chief with a blackened wolf-snout laced into his scalp-lock. There were six women in white buckskins and dove feathers; a holy man dancing in circles and chanting; and six young warriors who seemed very nervous at his approach. When he neared he saw a lot of sign, as if a big war party had just swooped in and cleared out. But it looked like a bear or cougar had devoured the war chief’s heart and throat and face—some nasty business that must have been.

The oldest woman, who he remembered speaking to him in a nightmare, or maybe seeing when she was young, approached him as she strung the hoop from her belt and then put her hands together. “Grandfather Jay, can you understand my English?”

“Sure girl. Is you one a Turtle’s girls?”

“I am the granddaughter of ElkTail, called Eggshell. I sent you back to Sunset from the camp of Powhatan thirty-eight winters past. It Is now the Year of Christ Sixteen-twenty-four. Welcome.”

She’s family!

He grabbed the slight little lady and hugged her gently as he lifted her, and set her down easily.

The holy man stopped chanting and kneeled, as did the six warriors, one of whom keeled over.

“Hey Eggshell, why’d I come back in da river when you ova here?”

She seemed stunned. “I’d rather not speak of it Grandfather. Let us just say that you were preceded to this place by the one spoken of as DeathSong.”

Hello, another war crime dummy!

“Ya mean I did all dis?”

“No Grandfather, you merely completed the horror, besides you were obviously possessed.”

Dude, you could not have done that—look at that mess!

“Oh, so what y’all need me fer?”

“I was forced by this evil man to summon you for his own selfish needs Grandfather, and you ate him. His warriors have fled, leaving behind their holy man and these six young men for him to sacrifice to you.”

Damn, this is disturbing! Seriously, straighten this out.

“I don’ wanna eat nobody girl. Dem white-face dudes was yer men if I recall correct. How ‘bout dese young dudes help ya bury dem and stay on ta guard ya’ll in deir place?”

“Your English is quite odd Grandfather. But you are wise. I am sure this will put each party at ease. Would you agree to permit Heron, the Mahican holy man, to return to his remaining men in the interest of lasting peace?”

“Whateva’ ya think sweedart. I’m gonna take da chief’s things before ya bury ‘im. Den I’ll be gettin’ out into da woods above affer dat bear.”

She then stepped closely to him and whispered excitedly, “Grandfather, thank you for returning. We did not wish to disturb you. But we should have perished had you not come to us.”

“No problem girl. Had notin’ betta ta do. Really I didn’t; quit my cashierin’ job six weeks ago.”

He then looted the chief’s body and got for himself a fine set of steel bone-handled knives, a steel battleaxe made from a cut-down English halberd, and a really fine 60-pound ash and sinew bow with nine well crafted flint-tipped hawk-fletched arrows. The breechcloth was comfortable but needed washing. The moccasins were two sizes too big, so he left them with the ladies to adjust and went out bare-foot and naked. This was going to be a slow stalk anyhow. He would just take his time and enjoy the hunt while his stomach settled. He was feeling kind of ill in the belly and could use the solitude.

After he gathered his plunder and headed up the mountain he looked down at his left thigh, wondering if the soaking in the river was going to cause infection as Doc had warned him in the past.

Although he had been shot not a half hour ago according to his reckoning of his personal time, the wound appeared to be an old one; a sunken scar that had healed without being closed. On closer inspection he could even feel the small slug imbedded in the muscle just within the ligature.

That is not supposed to happen.

I suppose you’ll have to call up Customer Service and invoke your guarantee.

There has got to be a scientific explanation.

It hurts!

Okay, I’ll just tell the geeks and they’ll figure it all out.

He had transported before with injuries and had experienced no healing. Heck, when he was called back to 1586 he was still bleeding from his tangle with the crack-head and the cops. A chill travelled up his spine and he momentarily doubted his recollections of ‘recent’ events. He began then to doubt his sanity. The thought though filled him with fear and he backed away from any more self-examination or contemplation, afraid more than anything that he might lose his mind.

You’re good dummy.