Project Timeslip

#PRELUDE

As he stepped into the early morning sunlight, Daniel Williams also stepped one hundred years into the future. He squinted through eyes still accustomed to the gloom of the underground complex. Everything looked the same as it had yesterday and the day before.
The Permian Basin was still a dried out, prehistoric seabed whose former inhabitants had turned into black, Texas crude oil millions of years ago. A barren land where thorny weeds struggled to survive. The harsh climate had forced their roots deep into the hard caliche soil that had sat for centuries under the same West Texas sun that the Pueblo Indians had used to bake adobe mud bricks. Daniel Williams shielded his eyes, searching for any sign of change, but even the sky seemed to feather off to the same dirty shade of tan where it touched the horizon. Everything looked the same – except for the tall Saguaro cactus standing across the highway; it hadn't been there that morning.
The silent cactus raised a spiny arm in greeting as it pointed another down the edge of the crumbling highway whose faded blacktop showed no signs of tire marks.
Daniel shivered and rubbed his arms against the fleeting chill of morning. The day was young and brisk, but a few hours of sunshine would soon alleviate that. He waved back to the friendly Saguaro and decided to take its advice.
The sun bleached asphalt stretched out in front of the time traveler as he followed the westerly road toward the city of Newtown – or at least where Newtown used to be. He wondered just how far into the future he had come, and he thought about the steps that he'd already taken, the steps that had brought him to … wherever he was.
The long walk gave him plenty of time to reflect. The past six months had been full of demands. The Timeslip Project, Chief Todd's unreasonable proposal, and then the tragic affair with Christina. He hadn’t thought of her, or allowed himself to think of her, for a long time. That was another memory that deserved to stay buried. Her demands had been the hardest of all. He still wanted to blame her for the accident, for pushing the issue of commitment, and for running out on him. But he couldn't. He had pushed her away. He tried to convince himself that all that was far behind him now, buried in the past. He now walked in a different time, freed from the past-present to explore this future-present. Only he wasn’t sure whether he was here to explore a different future, or to run away from his own.

******
The Warrior's Den sat in a natural rock alcove at the far edge of the village, out of sight from the rest of the Clan. Unmated warriors gathered there regularly in the evening to share the camaraderie of fresh meat and strong drink. Many of the pair-bonded warriors also gathered, leaving their wo'am and noisy children behind. They ate venison and drank brien, an alcoholic mixture brewed from vegetable peelings and fruit scraps. Mostly they drank and challenged each other to games of bravery. Lauriel walked in, as always, with her defiant stride.
Two “brothers,” who did not consider themselves related to this she-warrior, watched from across the room. One stood in front of a ragged target board that hung on the wall. Before she came in, they had been taking turns throwing their dagger at the board. One would stand so close to the target that his opponent's dagger missed by only inches. If the challenger flinched, he lost a token. If he managed to catch the dagger, he won two. Tokens were important in the Den. Not only were they a measure of status, they would buy more beakers of brien.
When she walked past, they continued to stare. Everyone did. Most of the warriors did not accept her as one of them, but they no longer tried to keep her out. Her skill with the knife had left a cutting memory with more than one impetuous brother.
Lauriel ignored the hushed room and walked over to the spit of roasting game. She jerked her dagger free and held its tip in the air – the sign of challenge for anyone who cared to accept.
As everyone returned to their warm brien, she covered a satisfied smile and sliced off two chunks of meat. On her way out, she stabbed a half-eaten loaf of squaw bread and rescued it from a startled brothers’ table. Although the brown squaw bread’s texture resembled a dry bath sponge, she enjoyed its flavor. For many of the Clan's families, the chewy loaf was too often a substitute for meat. She glanced behind her to see who was still watching before ducking through the door flap.

In the shadows, a figure dressed in black silently observed Danon's departure. The Visitor's appearance in the doorway of Lauriel's lodge had been a surprise and halted his approach. He watched the intruder leave and felt an unexplained sense of danger. As a hunter he knew when he was being threatened, and he knew how to deal with it. He started to follow his prey, but heard other footsteps approaching from behind. Muffled voices getting closer.
He did not trust this intruder. Why had he come? Where was he really from? And what was he doing in Lauriel's lodge? Surely this visitor would not dare to be his rival. Lauriel was his, or soon would be. Everyone knew that.
His instincts told him to do away with the white-skinned visitor with a single thrust of his dagger, but the stranger provided two kilo credits. And that payment was needed by his clan. It would feed a family for two weeks, longer if meat could be provided by the hunters. Yet, he still sensed a greater danger, a desire to change the old ways. A warrior preserved the old ways. A warrior protected the Clan. A warrior did what must be done, and this outsider was not to be trusted. Devon lowered the dagger into its sheath and faded away into the concealing darkness. He would choose another time to do what must be done.
********* Danon’s indoctrination was a sacred ceremony that lasted far into the night. There was much for the new warrior to learn, and Devon ensured every step of the ceremony was followed meticulously. He was presented with his own set of leathers and a dagger, the symbol of both death and survival. Tucked inside the knife’s hollow handle was a curl of parchment, the prophesy.
# The visitor comes from afar … to defeat the undefeated … to lead his people to freedom … with great magic, the warrior sacrifices himself for those not his own emissary to the future … leader of clans … the Supreme May'r.
# Without any explanation, he was charged to keep the Clan safe. He must protect it with his life. With his death. All members of the Brotherhood had all experienced the sacrament of death, a ritual that severed their ties as clan members. In their new life, they served apart from, and watched over, the other clansmen. Some of the original Grotto warriors could trace their lineage back to the Cherokee guardians, called Mankiller, who watched over villagers well into the 19th century, till removal by the encroaching Europeans. Like their Samurai and medieval knight counterparts, their path of sworn duty was to protect the People from any threat. E ensure its survival. He learned the simple code that would guide his steps on this new path.
Loyalty to May’r and Clan above all. One warrior was expendable; the Brotherhood must continue. What needs to be done, must be done. Hunt with courage, and die with honor.
Devon did not expect to inherit the mantel of responsibility. Of course, he didn't expect to fall in love either. But Lauriel was different. The Clan was different. They needed him. More than he needed to escape the burden of leadership. Somewhere late in the night, he realized… he was born for this.