Time-travel is among the most rehashed and argued about sci-fi subgenres. The grandfather paradox has been done to death since before my birth, as has the butterfly effect in more recent times. I was interested in writing a wide-ranging set of time-travel themed novels that entertains the possibility of these two leaders in the time-travel theory discussion, and gives equal time to time-branching and evolutionary weight. As a writer I enabled this by establishing that two sets of interlinked male/female devices are created in the 29th Century. The male set ‘loop capacitors’ invoke the grandfather paradox. The female set ‘branch-capacitors’ generate a time-branch and remain fixed in that ‘timeframe.’

Those are, in broad essence, my self-imposed rules, born as much from narrative need as anything. That does place the Sunset Saga outside the realm of hard sci-fi, and sends me to the borders of science-fantasy, which I do not wish to be completely sucked into. Hence I did as much reading on the subject as my inadequate brain could handle. If you go to singularitysymposium.com [the link is on our network page] you will notice that I am utilizing the third definition of a singularity and applying it to the 5th definition. Before I am eviscerated by some Ivy League physicist, let me remind your large brains that I was paying attention when you guys began talking about ‘spaghettification’. As a non-scientist, I do not see how a discussion of time-travel can even continue after that. I immediately decided that a time-machine must send a copy of a person through a fold in SpaceTime, not send a body through the equivalent of a black hole.

Since reading H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine as a boy, I have wondered what it would be like to travel to other times. The more I have wondered, and read about these other times, the more I have begun to wonder about what it would be like for a primitive person to travel to our time, and even beyond. That is the essence of the title for the Sunset Saga, and the first novel Of The Sunset World. When I decided to base the series on efforts at ‘chronological reclamation’, like grabbing Aristotle just before he mysteriously dies, or retrieving a couple of people from among the 90-plus% of humanity that did not survive the Toba Super Eruption, I came to my first big bump in the road. How would a primitive person understand time-travel?

The answer was, of course, a religious one.

A reader of the Sunset Saga suggested that Native American readers would like the idea of an Amerindian character as the lead in a sci-fi series. I don’t think so.

I have fictionalized a culture’s sacred ancestor, and have gone against accepted convention and made him human, and conflicted, with a bratty streak to boot. Currently, in cinema at least, a Native America may not be depicted as anything other than wise and untroubled. Not trusting the methods by which eastern woodlands Indians had their cultural heritage preserved under Christian influence, I have gone with some suppositions that will cause anger, thinking that a reasonable supposition is better than accepting corrupted information.

The Three-Rivers character is my version of the Iroquois Deganawida. I wanted a pre-contact Native American spiritual figure to come into contact with a ‘god-device’ which would be the most advanced machine humanity could develop. I am postulating, in the Sunset Saga, that this will be an artificially intelligent chronological replication matrix. I will surely have also pissed off a physicist or two by merging three definitions of a singularity into one device in order to fit my narrative needs. I am not overly concerned with this. Certainly scientific knowledge is not complete, the efforts of our current best thinkers destined to be expanded or overturned in time. I am interested more in the human ‘what-if’ than in the technical ‘how-to’.

In any case, having determined that a time-machine would not move individuals from one time to another, but rather copy them, it follows that this process would amount to storing the person’s information, including ego, dreams, superstitions and ambition. Keeping these factors in mind one might quickly come up with a short list of people not to recover from the past, such as Genghis Khan. I wondered, ‘What if a primitive, shamanistic consciousness was uploaded into such a device and refused to be archived, but rather remained evangelistic, and took control of the device by manipulating the moral imperatives that must be programmed into any such device as a safety feature?’

Such questions were the birth, and remain the life, of speculative-fiction, and are best discussed in story form.

Below is the first chapter of the 8th novel in a 21-novel series. My fiction is more about the small triumphs than the ultimate world-saving theme of most fiction. Therefore I do not consider this chapter that exposes the eventual nature of the boy seer who I introduced in of The Sunset World, to be a spoiler. Indeed I encourage readers to hop into the Sunset Saga midstream and read forward or backward as the spirit of the story strikes them. The portion of the Saga that covers Three-Rivers’ merging with the god-device is the last novel in Pillagers of Time, Thunderboy: The Transmogrification of Three-Rivers.

It is a feature of my sci-fi that science is usually depicted through the viewpoint of someone who is not a scientist, or even of a scientific frame of mind. Eventually, I think this is where we end up, regarding with wonder those devices we can no longer fathom, but remain dependent upon. In many senses most of us may already be there. My using this computer is one such instance.

The chapter below involves one method a time-traveler, in need of a companion, might use to get around the grandfather paradox.

He rumble-thrummed onto the wide moonstone bridge; an artifice of suspended rock torn from Mother Earth, melted in the Whiteman’s raging fire, reformed by the mighty hands of the Whiteman’s thunderer—the spirit they called Industry—and then placed here, to span these waters, by the Whiteman’s many uncaring hands. He ventured out onto the metallic span on his Sazuki thunder-horse, purchased with pleasure with dream trade notes stolen from Whiteman Ford’s financial ghost camp. He paused just after pulling onto the structure, one of the Whiteman’s more practical innovations. Bridges were far less damaging to Mother Earth—or what remained of her—than tunnels and interstate highway grades, etc.

Yes Mother, at least in this instance, with the spanning of your water here, they acknowledged your power, your right to let your hair down in the form of these waters and flow to the Big Salty, as the Spirit of Hiawatha. Even he passed above your waters on occasion in his wondrous white-sky-canoe.

He considered the reflecting ear above the antler of the thunder-horse, looked at the man within, his soul trapped as fleetingly in its reflection as it was in this Whiteman-damned world. He had once, upon coming into this Whiteman version of tomorrow, affectionately named it Sunset, the place where he then believed he would find the departed souls of his grandfathers. He knew this world now, as Sunset still: the world beyond the passing of the Natural People; the world in which Mother Earth herself was raped like a natural woman taken by white soldiers during a maize-burning raid. Sunset was a now-evil world, that never-the-less supplied a safe haven for him, and a means to combat the Whiteman nations who had yet to overrun his Mother Earth in that other yesterday, as they had her sister here.

I have stolen the Whiteman’s all-knowing eye—have his power, am his power.

I must strike like Thunderer, for I have become Thunderer!

Yes, but first, make some nice.

He saw, for the first time with his eyes, himself, Three-Rivers Thunderboy WhiteSkyCanoe Hesperia, as a physical man. Ever since he had joined with Burnt Man’s Sunken Star, and gained the power of the thunderbirds to travel the Fourteen Rivers of Time, he had, he knew, the ability to reform in the image of a grown man. The discipline of Father, however; the ghost of the great WhiteSkyCanoe, wisest of the Longhouse Prophets of He-Who-Makes-Rivers, who yet haunted the deep echoing well of his soul, had restrained him.

The other great ghost within him, the conspiratorial spirit of his evil mother, Tina Hesperia, Seducer of Worlds, had been—and remained—insistent that he adopt the form most conducive to his current need. Mother was to be honored. Her dark wisdom had helped him much against her evil Masters of Further Sunset, and Furthest Sunset. But she was not to be trusted.

I do not need Mother’s advice. This is a thing of compassion I do.

She came when he was weak, like a seductress in the night of his self-doubt. But otherwise he kept her in her place, in the lonely widow’s house at the edge of his inner camp, on the outskirts of the bustling community of his ever-expanding mind. Mother was, after all, the widow of his war chief, DeathSong, lost now to the evil medicine woman society of Further Sunset called Mothercorp. Mother Hesperia was to be honored, if distrusted.

To keep her at bay he sought her probable opinion in her absence. His increasingly vast mind was sometimes a troubling place to live with one’s thoughts and questions. It was a struggle to meditate, as he had so much lore, so many of the Whiteman’s vast book stacks, stored within his deep darkly shadowed mind.

His gaze returned to his reflection, wondering if Mother would approve, if Father would approve. He was the height of a man now, what the whites called ‘six foot tall’. His skin was a deep copper, his long banded hair coal black, his face what women called ‘handsome’. His nose was a bit too prominent for his own taste, and he was fairly disgusted by the bobbing throat organ that the Whiteman insisted on equating with the fruit-eating sin of their Grandfather Adam.

The one nut-colored and one sideway’s looking clouded eye of his childhood—his decrepit penance for some past life lived wrongly he still believed, although it’s trace yet eluded his inner eye—had long since been replaced with sky-colored eyes of Whiteman blue. His now deceased totem, Gerald Hicks—the unrepentant transmigrant African American wino reincarnated as a squirrel—had insisted that these blue eyes made him look like a ‘goddamn Puerto Rican’. Although they were not the eyes of a Natural Person of Mother Earth, he liked them, as they were the eyes of the wolf, and he refused to permit the Whiteman to have an exclusive right to wolf eyes.

He cut off his thunder-horse from its fire-blood, and dismounted, taking one look down at his body, concealed lightly by his doeskin ceremonial attire.

Not much of a bear there, skinny boy!

A deep cavernous thought echoed within, There is no need to look strong when one has wisdom My Son.

Thank you Father. Besides, I have something of the thin build of Randy Bracken, DeathSong’s evil brother, a man feared by any right-thinking person. So I might still walk proudly among chiefs?

The ‘voice’ of WhiteSkyCanoe rose within him until his brain became aflame with knowing, Pride is nothing My Son, less than nothing. Walk alone, walk like the wind. The wind has no pride, and conquers all—will even sweep over Mother Earth when she is ground to barren dust and set ablaze by her brother sun.

He did as he was advised, walking without pride, along the green-painted moon-metal bridge of the Whiteman, his thunder-horse remaining still behind him, in the deathly state of its kind’s repose. His moccasins scraped lightly across the grating while he enjoyed the view of the water below, water not fouled—not here, not where the Whiteman stored his water for drinking—by castoff Whiteman things.

This was a bridge above a river that fed a big Whiteman-made lake called Loch Raven Reservoir. The Whiteman and his half-freed slaves numbered so many on Sunset that their wells were lakes, some so massive that he could see them easily when he projected his sprit into the Whiteman Moons belonging—so they thought—to the void-walking medicine-men of NASA, without even seeking enhanced resolution or magnification.

He felt the mist and the clear cool breeze wafting up from below on this mid-summer morning. This was a time before people were supposed to visit here. The Whiteman had rules for everything it seemed. The sun was not yet up from behind the wooded hills above. Despite the Whiteman’s rules, there was a visitor up ahead, a visitor with a deep sorrow in her heart. He could see her mechanical servant, her thunder-chair so-to-speak, pulled off the road ahead, and could also see her standing with her back to the bridge made by her evil masters’ grandfathers.

She is so sad I can taste her tears from here. I trust I am not too late.

Mother’s sultry voice crept up within him, My Sweet it is seven-thirty-six. According to the coroner’s certificate the time of death was just after eight. She probably drowned after jumping in response to a motorist stopping to inquire—or because one just passed her by, thus confirming her deep feeling of disenfranchisement.

You are wise despite yourself Mother.

My Sweet, we whores have ruled the world since long before your sanctimonious father was born. I wag—

Mother, back to your shrouded house!

He could hear the echo of her high spiked night-colored moccasins for man-seduction as they clomped angrily down the hollow passage of his absent lust.

Finally, he came to her side, on this, the safe side of the barrier against falling called a railing. It then occurred to him, that even though he possessed a limited type of immortality—according to the Whiteman’s way of looking at life as a rising arrow of gain and then loss—that he was still deathly afraid of heights. He made to step between the bars and then grew fearful even as she pretended he was not there.

I know fear?

Then, to steady himself, he thought back to his crooked-backed one-eyed childhood, when he had been the Escort of Souls because of his suffering from the Vision Sickness that the Whiteman called Epilepsy. There had been times, on the trek up from the Pushing River, when DeathSong had guided him and his broken-minded companion Arrow Holder over the Beautiful-People-Mountains, when they had enjoyed heights.

It had fallen to the two damaged boys—one of the Tree Eaters and the other of the Longhouses—to befriend the savage white demon. Being boys, they had sought entertainment from the man-eating avenger who warriors so feared, by having him carry them to the tops of the most majestic trees. So Three-Rivers—not feeling like tall Thunderboy now, but more like the tiny bent ‘Squirrel Boy’ of his childhood—imagined in his mind, that the fierce eater-of-warriors was holding him about the waist with one man-breaking arm, as he climbed as nimbly as a squirrel up a towering cedar with the other inhumanly strong hand.

The woman was of average height for her kind: white, hair red with gray roots. She was wearing blue jeans, sneakers, and a white woman’s shirt, of material light enough that one could see the white breast-strapping underneath. She sobbed pitifully, her flushed cheeks dripping with tears and her eyes swollen with torment. Her body had also borne the burden of sorrow. Her belly was swollen, not from a child, but by drink—the child of sorrow un-escaped.

Three-Rivers had done much drinking of the Whiteman’s various types of medicine water, beer being his favorite. But now, seeing this woman, he resolved not to drink again, as a kind of protest against those who made this substance. He was in no danger from drink himself, being a highly trained visionary. He was a prophet though, and it was up to him to make examples and commit actions reflective of virtue, not selfish vision-questing. What, with the virtual worlds of information sunken just beneath his mind’s eye, he had no shortage of opportunities to quest within. He no longer needed medicine water to accelerate his spirit flights.

So, having nearly convinced himself that he would not drink the Whiteman’s medicine water again, he turned to the woman beside him. “Greetings Miss Jerry Fields of the Lutherville Whites, I am Three-Rivers. I seek your friendship Jerry.”

She looked at him with a haunting desperation in her eyes. “Did I do it? Am I dead? I didn’t think I had the balls to do it.”

“You are not dead Jerry; the act of self-killing is not complete. Also, I am sure that your anatomical analogy concerning your lack of courage is misplaced. You have had the courage to live through sorrows, to suffer through indignities that would have driven others to stop caring about those around them. Many, in your place, may even have become bad people in rebellion against their sad plight.”

“Who are you again?”

“I am Three-Rivers, with other names also. Three-Rivers is the important name, for it was bestowed upon me by my father, WhiteSkyCanoe.”

“I don’t want you to stop me. It’s too much—I can’t take it anymore. I’m done!”

“Do you really want to die Jerry?”

“No. But living is too painful.”

“Jerry, let me hold your hand please, while we sit down. I am afraid of heights and am getting dizzy. The spell I placed upon myself is wearing off.”

“I’m strong; I’m a strong Polish chick! You can’t drag me back over the railing—and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Jerry, if you don’t want me to get hurt, how about if we hold hands and sit down. I’m terrified—really, a ‘sissy’ as you say here on Sunset.”

The woman took his hand reluctantly and then they sat, her helping him steady himself, even holding her hand against his trembling belly as he leaned back against the metal barrier. There was an edge to her voice, a giddiness, “You aren’t making that up about being scared—you’re shaking like a leaf.”

He sighed, “Jerry, if I could lie about my cowardly nature, I would make up a big story about how brave I am. Thank you. I should be fine now.”

She smiled at him. “What kind of Indian are you?”

“I was born to the Flint-Place-People—Mahicans, and adopted by a man of the People-of-Big-Hill-Town—the Senecas.”

“That’s nice. You know, I always liked stories about Indians. I wished my Vicki had met a nice Indian man. Things might have turned out different if I had a good son-in-law—grandbabies and everything.”

She began growing sad again as her voice trailed off, so he tried to joke. “There just aren’t too many of us Indians left Jerry. Is your daughter, Vicki, well?”

Jerry’s voice became bitter, “Oh, well enough I guess. She is with her dyke girlfriend—doesn’t need Mommy to cook en clean en iron her clothes anymore.”

“You mean that thing you do where shirts are burned between a board and a smoking piece of metal?”

“Yes, that’s called ironing. Anyways, I guess it’s for the best, her moving out on her own and all, going her own way. If she chooses a woman, that’s her call. It’s not like there’s many men to choose from. I certainly know that!”

He cringed a little from the bitterness in her voice. “Vicki’s father is a bad man?”

“No, he was just weak—a sorry S.O.B. really. He passed nine years ago. I was just talking about all of the bastards!—excuse me—that have used me and her, and that biggest bastard of them all, Mister Sanders!”

Her anger was shocking, so he decided to feed it, to get her mind off of the subject of self-killing, “Mister Sanders? Is this bad man your chief?”

She fairly spat the words, “Chief of Shit Mountain more like it! He’s my boss, owns a sanitation business, his trucks pick up trash, empty dumpsters.”

“He was your chief of making money then?”

“Yeah, my boss: that evil prick! I was his dispatcher. He had this hot young thing as a receptionist—didn’t need her, just wanted her body. He’s a pig. So, she gets sick of the harassment and marries some basketball player and leaves. Now—look at me, I’m not even built anymore—he starts feeling me up, saying sick stuff to me. Well, I hit him! I can sock it to an old horn-dog let me tell yah! That just turned the freak on. So he keeps it up. Eventually, when his wife comes in to do the books, I tell her, ask her to make it stop. The next thing I know I’m fired—by both of them!”

Jerry was flaming angry. “Can’t get a job at forty-five. Can’t pay the bills. So, I’m out on my ass—my daughter and her dyke friend don’t want me because they have some Mexican maid to clean their house! I’m living in my car for three weeks. My little Vicki, my little girl, who I did everything for, doesn’t need me, doesn’t want me! Where did I go wrong? I gave her everything!”

Three-Rivers patted her arm and then put his arm around her. She continued with her Story. “On top of that my boss sent his men to threaten me, threatened me not to sue. He’s some mafia guy—I shouldn’t kill myself. I should kill him! I’m done, done; just too tired. I threw my blood pressure medicine out yesterday. If I just sit in that car long enough I’ll stroke out and die—or maybe just jump and get it over with.”

My Sweet, this Mister Sanders and his trash-picking goons might deserve a visit from Randy Bracken. He might be the most infuriating brother-in-law I ever had, but he has his talents.

Mother!

My Sweet, this kind of man—this Sanders—will torment more women. I must insist that my gender-preservation imperative be honored.

Mother?

Yes My Beautiful-minded Son, I am an evil, murderous whore—or was before you deconstructed me and cast my replicant into the fading future. But I am right about men and you know it.

Yes Mother, I feel the fire ignite your soul. Wisdom is not always good, and you are most wise. I am a prophet though, a man of peace. A peaceful inquiry only—though delivered by the hand of your dark-spirited in-law. Now, back below…

He could feel the angry quiver of her spiritual lips as she stalked down the long hall of his worldly repose…

Three-Rivers then put his finger to the quivering lips of the physical woman next to him. “Jerry, you sound like a good Mother. You know, I’m celibate—no woman, no wife, so no children. What I do have though is a prophet’s family. I have a big town of people who live happily together without money, without all of those crazy Whiteman rules. It is mostly a town of Natural People, who you call Indians. They have an elder mother, named Egg Shell, a granddaughter of a dead friend of mine. She is getting old and could use some help with things. “Also, the town has a sister, Hyacinth, and I am taking her away to acquire a painter for a friend—even less help for Egg Shell, you see?”

Jerry mopped at her eyes with her hands. They were scarred from cooking and baking and butchering and sewing; all of the timeless tasks of the wife, the mother, but now apparently of little value to white people. Her voice was soft and cautious, “Really, you need help? You’re not just trying to trick me into not killing myself?”

Three-Rivers smiled and took her hands in his. “Whiteman Mother Jerry, I trick your

people all the time—a regular fox I’ve been. If I wanted to trick you Jerry, than you would never suspect—I’m that tricky!”

She permitted herself a cautious laugh, and then a smile.

Three-Rivers plucked a hair from his head and it glowed with the medicine of The

Sunken Star, but to Jerry it was a trick played by the rising sun. “You must use some kind of proprietary conditioner! Look how the light plays off your hair.”

He then wrapped the hair around her left wrist and smoothed it between his hands as he whispered in her ear, “Jerry, this is your Thunderboy bracelet—they call me that you know; Thunderboy, Master of the Thunderbirds.”

Jerry was rubbing her wrist, where the hair had sunken into her skin and left a sun-

colored impression of a braided hair around her wrist. “What are you a magician or

something?”

“As a matter of fact I am that Jerry. We—us Natural People—call our magicians

medicine-men.”

“That’s neat. I bet it sure beats a nine-to-five job.”

Three-Rivers heard a car approaching, and decided to expedite matters, his tone grown serious, “Jerry, will you come to my town, show the young women your cooking tricks and take care of the babies, and help old Egg Shell?”

She beamed, like she was asleep and smiling about an unlikely dream as it carried her to the Land of Dreaming Grandfathers that the Whiteman derisively called fantasy. “Sure, let’s go buddy. I’d Love to be a Polack Indian.”

Three-Rivers took her hand in his and breathed in deeply, and never stopped inhaling. He grew until his lungs caught fire and he became a star. Then he exhaled, exhaled until his belly was cold and hollow and he grew large and red. Then, in due time, he grew tired and heavy. Eventually, Time itself took on a weight, a weight that bore down on his aged shoulders, until he sunk within himself, pulling Time with him like a man that had fallen through his sapling-ledge-bed, pulling his cozy hides with him. And those hides that followed him through the hole he had become, they were all the Whiteman’s wicked years, thankfully trailing behind him now, as he and his new friend hitched a ride on one of Thunderer’s mighty birds and returned to Egg Shell’s Dream-catcher, the thunder-hoop that resided atop Amble Mesa’s sand-painted spirit mound, the earthen mountain at the center of, and above, AllPeopleTown…