He woke to the returning winter birds of morning, chirping, cawing and whistling that spring had come. He rocked along, slung like a sack across a hard hairy back as meek voices pleaded for he who carried him to slow his pace. The man that carried him though did not slow, for he was actually a wolf, and he simply slathered and snarled at the others and they kept pace though with piteous pleas for mercy. The rocking took him back to sleep as his totem sat his back and clucked nervously, and he returned to Oneness again…

He woke standing between Eddie and MoonBeaver, with Mister Gerald Hicks squatting atop MoonBeaver’s head and clucking angrily in his face, “We screwed boy! I thought you were da captain a dumbass ideas ‘till I met dat crazy Whiteboy! You bess tink a sometin’ boy. He down dare killin’ folks en dey a commin’ fo payback!”

His friends stepped to his side so that he could get a good look around. There was not a river in sight. They were atop a rocky and somewhat domed hill that had often served as a hunters’ camp. A permanent ring of firestones was well maintained and the small trees that had grown here had been felled to make an open-sided shelter and drying racks for hanging slain deer. A well-used trail continued over the hill into a tangled mixed forest that grew thickly behind them. To either side and ahead of them the hill gently sloped out to a bottomland drained by two small streams.

The slope and bottomland was lightly wooded and broken by many felled adult trees. Apparently, some years ago, a great wind—but somewhat narrowly, even unnaturally, focused—tore through this area killing many adult trees. During the spring and summer this bottomland would be a tangle of briars, berry bushes and other minor plants, attracting plenty of deer for hunters. But now after a long harsh winter it was an open burial ground for elder trees, and a killing ground for one particular hunter of men.

Below DeathSong darted among the fallen trees plying his bow against many warriors that appeared to be of the Southern Mountain Cousins. These were certainly Longhouse-men, though far from home. It was as if the men and demon played a game of ducking and shooting. The demon was much better at this game, having left some men already filled with arrows. However, there were many more warriors than the demon had arrows, and he was being forced to retreat uphill toward them. Eddie commented gravely, “Son dere twenty a dem en he got but seven arrows lef’. We played out, can’t ged away. Once dey drive him up here dey can rush us son. We got ta negotiate.”

MoonBeaver spoke not but trembled much. Gerald was now mounted on his head and using many profane Sunset words to describe their predicament.

You must act Thunder-Boy. Your demon has given you the time you require. You must now cast him like the tomahawk of last hope and turn away.

“Eddie, he is the fastest man on Sunset and Mother Earth. They cannot catch him. If we stay he will die defending us. I would rather release him from this burden.”

A warrior then screamed as he leaped over a fallen log and took an arrow through the throat that dropped him gurgling to the frozen ground. Gerald quipped, “Crazy White somebitch can shoot!”

“Yes he can Gerald, and this crazy red somebitch can fly! I’m firing up Mister Hicks! Hold on!”

He then switched to English and then Good-River. “Eddie grab my hand Yo. MoonBeaver, hold my hand and focus your mind on the hoop Eddie placed in your wrist.”

As they stood holding hands and he chanted the ThunderSong he could see warriors swarming over logs as DeathSong slung his bow across his back and drew his knife and tomahawk. The whooping of warriors giving chase was undercut by the chopping sound of the White demon’s furiously striding feet breaking through the frozen crust of the matted down briar patch below.

He heard a wolf growl below as the thundercloud appeared above. He then shouted to Thunderer, “Take us to Sunset in the Snow Moon of the year Twenty-one-thirteen. Thunderer, take us now!”

The hillside across which scurried those twenty or so struggling souls folded in upon itself as the warriors cried in amazement and a ravenous wolf howled victoriously.

He glided out beyond the un-peopled worlds and down the spiral cloudbank to the black pool. Gerald Hicks perched like a cowboy upon his neck and sang a song about a little doggie getting along, even as Eddie dreamed about walking through a flowered garden with Dawn Star and MoonBeaver recalled his loving parents and the other good things of his young life.

To hunt Thunder-Boy must be a vexing task indeed!

He was now plunging like light toward the small blue stone that circled the burning campfire that hung in the void.

They appeared atop the very same hill, though more overgrown. It was midday and not cold at all. It rained somewhat, with few drops reaching them through the trees. Off to the right he heard the ‘woosh’ and drone of thunderbeasts and knew they were near a thunder-trail called highway. He looked around at his companions and all were well. Gerald it seemed had quite enjoyed himself, dusting of his jacket with his tiny hat, just to appear properly dressed. He was sad though, to have lost his pimp-cane. “Eddie, what say you we go down to that highway Yo?”

“Sounds good son. Let’s roll Yo.”

As they picked their way carefully between the tangle of minor trees and the many discarded beer bottles about the abandoned ring of firestones, that yet remained after all of these hundreds of winters, he sensed her toward Sunrise.

You know than, that she sensed you as well.

“Eddie I hope you have some cash. We are headed toward Sunset, across the Mississippi. I had truly wished to cross it in its pristine state in Mother Earth, in a fine canoe. I suppose I will have to settle for crossing it on some Whiteman’s ugly moonstone bridge.”

At least you will have the honor of crossing the greatest of rivers. I never did get that far downriver. You are blessed, even if your blessing is tainted by breathing the burning air of the Whiteman in that woeful Sunset World.

It is so nice to be haunted by you once again Father. Stay with me, for we are sure to see wonders.

My son, one watches, an elder prophet of the AllPeople, above a vast dry land, in a town called MedicinePole. Seek his grace beyond the painted land.

His disciples were tugging at his tuxedo as Eddie spoke, “Yo son, you okay? We at a gas station Yo, en dare a eighteen wheeler stopped. Looks like a nice old dude. I’m gonna offer him some change to take us west. Dey all Indiana plates ‘cept dis trucker; he from PA. We in Indiana son, halfway to da Mississippi; halfway dare.”

“This is your world Eddie. You are our guide. Carry on as our trail-chief please.”

He then turned to MoonBeaver, who was gawking at the gathered thunderbeasts and the wide black thunder-trail and those machines that zoomed and rumbled on by.

“Welcome to The Sunset World, the World of Nearest Sunset to be exact. The rolling boxes stuffed with entranced White People are thunderbeasts, magical animal servants that the Sunset People make and then enslave. Perhaps one day we shall free them. But for now, we are—in a most contradictory way—dependent on their tireless labor. Pray for them please, and do not be alarmed by the soulless ghosts that possess them.”

MoonBeaver nodded like an obedient disciple. “I shall pray for the slave-beasts my prophet and I shall pray for you, who just delivered us from death with your thunder medicine.”

Praise to a prophet is poison Thunder-Boy. As well-meaning as it is you must not acknowledge it or savor it, less you become as Hated Hair-Lip. You must not permit yourself to grow into a nation-possessing crowd-demon.

But it feels so good to be admired and revered.

Decline the honor Thunder-Boy.

“MoonBeaver, Thunderer delivered us from my man-hunting cousins. I was simply the rattle that accompanied his dance. Thank Thunderer.”

“Yes my prophet, forgive me my enthusiasm.”

“My friend, there is plenty ahead for which your enthusiasm will be appropriate. You are about to journey across a world of dream and dread—enjoy.”