Echoing Time: Book I of the Woohox Chronicles

By Michelle Stojic

Echoing Time is part of a chronology of stories initiated by the miscreant Trillem Pax Kenroo and his search for universal intergalactic domination. However, he is thwarted early on by providence and the stalwart nature of a young Arapaho girl named Marin Wanderhorse. Marin is kidnapped by the ghostly spectre of Kenroo, whose mission was to gain corporeal form and rule the earth. Marin successfully hinders his efforts throughout history, returning his abominations to the normal flow of history as written. Eventually, Marin is successful in returning Kenroo toward his destined path of redemption, but she is lost in the paradox of quantum string and multidimensional travel.

Her parents dont give up on finding her and, with the help a discredited quantum physicist and a hippie commune in the Sonora region of Arizona, discover and capture a quantum string. Eventually, they are able to use the string to travel between realities, stopping an international arms deal, returning lost art taken by the Nazis to Jewish families, and returning the antagonist, Kenroo, to his prescribed destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524511579

Michelle Stojic

I am an avid fan of the sci-fi genre. I believe that this type of story has not been toldat least not in this manner. There are elements of history, science, and mathematics uniquely intertwined to give the reader a compelling view into the characters and the trials set before them. I believe that readers in high school and older will find this story fascinating. There are strong female characters, and it includes a diverse population ranging from First Nations people to those of Eastern European descent and South American ancestry as well.

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 by Michelle Stojic.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2016910146

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5245-1159-3

                Softcover        978-1-5245-1158-6

                eBook             978-1-5245-1157-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 07/28/2016

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Contents

The Conundrum of Trillem Pax Oornek, aka Kenroo Mellirt, Among Others

Discovery

Signals

The initial find, Trillem’s landing site

The Dig Site

The Caverns and Their Treasure Trove

Trillem Kenroo’s Mound, His Soul’s Release

Enter Kenroo Trillem Pax

Marin Wanders Off

The Roundup, Paris 1942

Anya’s Tale

Like a Chinese Puzzle Box

St. Petersburg 1915

The Hunt for Mystical Artifacts with the SS

In the Now, at the Smithsonian Center for Space

Wewelsburg Castle and the Quest for the Ark of the Covenant

Resonances, Vibrations, and an Electrical Surge

For Those Who Remain

A Dream or a Memory of Leningrad, Late February 1943

Returning to the Now

Two Weeks Earlier

Soviet Intervention

The Sonora Site

The Second Castoff or a Remnant of an Early Russian Space Exploration

Hope, Deceit, and Despair: The Second Materialization of Kenroo

The Prank

Time Well Spent

A Basket, a Bell, a Blanket, and a Boy Named Arslan

In the Here and Now

In the Nevermore

Communing

Back at the Dig

Sonora: Initial Sequence

The Council Convenes

Questions Unanswered and Questions Yet to be Asked

Mellirt’s chance

The Farm’s Pending Arrivals

Sonora Dig Site

Mellirt’s Arrival

Marin’s First Transgression

Reclamation

Wishes, Wants, and Needs

Transformational Beginnings

Denials and Acceptance

The Time Before Recovery

To the Rescue, Again

The Government and the Big Guns

Subterfuge or Compliance

A Warning and a Promise

The Calvary to the Rescue, or Not

Trial Run

Retrieval of Marin, or Mellirt’s final option

Countdown to disaster

Elsewhere

Sonora, launch

Back at Sonora, the send-off incomplete

The landing

Meanwhile, back in the nursery

Disquieting revelation

Mellirt’s dilemma

Seeking a suitable residence from which to search

Mellirt’s ministrations

Initial rejoining

Coming home

Homecoming

Reality’s Achievements

Back in the then

The Conundrum of Trillem Pax Oornek, aka Kenroo Mellirt, Among Others

The Weyen fey, a council of spiritual women, sat in governance of all worlds and dimensions. Their home was nestled deep in the constellation known as Andromeda among the stars forming the lesser-known constellation of Teen Ta Tseang Keun, or great general, and was sequestered deep in the mountains of a small planet called Deata. A pentangle of five was tended to by a triad of elders who watched over earthly intent and a fourth who acted as liaison between the now and then, and the here and there of interdimensional time and space. They kept balance and harmony between worlds. However, actions on multiple planets were cause for great concern, and required immediate attention. And their quiet home of Deata was no exception.

The matriarchal assemblage sat, consumed with worry. The creature being sent was flawed. Temperament, attitude, and morality were amiss. The world from whence he came had gone amuck. Her patronage was ghastly. War, greed, and deceit were the norm. Even the quieting hand of motherhood was fraught with envy and pretense. Suddenly the waters of progenitor were cloudy, and only doom and despair seemed certain.

The five sat bewildered. The youngest began to pace. That mother must not bear. It is already begun, replied the eldest. The other three quietly sat; the middle sat working her fingers through the air, eyes closed, entranced as though she were manipulating so many strings. The circle of Weyen women had no choice but to intervene. The grandmother is to blame, said one. No one is to blame, stated another. She was following the mandate set before her long ago. Six sons, and now the seventh daughter, wed to the Castilian, would prove doom, and like the phoenix rising from the ashes, connect across dimensions and time; traveling here and beyond. But what of the here and now? asked a third. Was not this daughter destined to the life of holy contemplation? It was to be so, added the third, however, the Castilian, upon hearing of the spiritual nature of this child, deemed her future to be that of matronly persuasion. But she was not designed for childbearing, countered the fourth, this infant is destined for war and hostility; he will bring ruin and damnation to all. Many, too many, will die as a result of his interference. All those people, all those lives, cannot one be saved? Their fate is sealed, and like the ones who came before, they too shall return. Our soul is eternal, but our bodies are limited. We cannot alter the destiny of the time in which we are born. We can only abide within the constraints of the reality. Any adjustment alters the balance for all our souls. And so it was set: time in motion, fortune gleaned, and the end to the beginning as yet to be heard, a mere echo, an echo in time.

And so, for the sector known and taxed as Delphinus Primal, retribution and punishment would mark the weary inhabitants. The nefarious leader was ruthless and cruel. He was the youngest son of an aging Castellan. One whose favors and fortunes had been early spent to foster other now older firstborn sons of virginal mothers. This yelpling was not to be amused by lack of, or simply nonexistent, as an answer. He expected his tithing. He demanded his homage. He WOULD get his pound of flesh!

The Castellan initially gave the planet of Deata to his maternal grandmother when he was a powerful man. His mother, Ni-Ram, was the seventh born to his grandmother and the powerful Castellan II, and thus was eligible to aspire to priestess rank or that of first chosen. At the tender age of 13, she was picked by the Castellan and abided to him. It mattered not that hers was to be a life of spiritual contemplation, or that her physical form was not created for proliferations. Eight months later, she died giving birth. The anomaly, which survived, now would rake this planet raw, causing death and destruction to be the rule.

At his birth he was small, petite were he be Fe; yet for a male child, not desirable at all. He was bathed in blood and cerumen, scaly from top to toe. A small pitiless cry barely emerged from his blue lips. His face, all puffy as if sustaining an explosion; an explosion his birth nearly was. He would be known as Kenroo pax Trillem. But there was no peace ascending from this lad.

Feverish from days of intermittent labor, his poor child-mother finally gave in to the all-encompassing agony. Opening her eyes to the world around her, with her mother at her side, Ni-Ram succumbed. Her duplicitous mother, relentless in devotion, realized too late, that her desire for wealth and power caused the death of her only daughter. Her father, the Castellan, was purple with frustration and anger at his young wife, her mother, and this so simple a process, for having taken so long. Surely a sign of inherent weakness, he mused. She saw this with her blurred eyes and she remembered it clearly. Then, in her memory, an awakening, so far away—a calling, so softly beckoning. So warm. So delightful. Gales of happy laughter and bliss. Again, she ran the hills surrounding her home. She danced in the breezes of a lazy afternoon. Her brothers and uncles cajoling, teasing her and her half-sisters. She took one more deep breath and exhaled. The terrible pain, which wracked her loins, had now dissipated. There was a warm liquid pooling up from around her legs. She smiled once and whispered, Trillem Pax Kenroo, peace at last. With her last breath removed, she died.

The child that was within her had been born. He was red and blotchy. Withered by comparison to his half-brothers, he was a pitiful excuse. By rights he should have died from the long and tenuous process. However, the spirit that welled up in his tiny and fragile body would grow, fed by the self-indulgence and avarice of his maternal grandmother. Tempered only, should destiny demand, by the fragile tenacity of his now deceased mother.

His mother’s first and last word was Kenroo Pax Trillem and so the child was named. He knew not that it was his mother’s true last words. Simply parts of a word, at best yearling’s name. The naming was important, the only real obligation the wife of a Castellan enjoyed. To die before one’s duty to an heir apparent was a disgrace. The Castellan snorted in disgust. At Bahmikvah, he will claim his rightful destiny or he will be denied.

His grandmother took over his upbringing. She had given the Castellan six strong sons and then the seventh, a daughter. The very daughter whose true destiny was to be that of humble prayer and contrition. This same daughter, who later became this yelp’s dying mother. There was little grandmother or mother could provide him as his own. He was a child’s child, one with little to call his own since his mother was not able to gather any favor from this king. There was no inheritance. His grandmother had little to call her own. Moreover, until he passed his Bahmikvah at 15, he could not enter the Castellan’s presence without his mother. She had died and left him—nameless, position less, and without destiny.

Or not …

He was neither physically strong nor mentally fit. Some thought him to be downright puny and mentally lacking. He was conniving, manipulative, and a bully. His older brother/uncles as well as his younger cousin/nephews bested him at even the simplest games. He would often respond in anger, calling up his lineage on behalf of the Castellan with the younger boys and his mother/grandmother with the older. His reputation quickly grew as a whiner and a cheat. Soon only small boys and some of the young female children would play with him. He never realized that his actions were what caused him to be ostracized. He decided that they avoided him out of jealousy. For in his mind, Trillem strongly believed the Castellan would claim him as successor at his Bahmikvah, as an attempt at appeasement for his mother’s early death. Then he—Castellan Prime—would take revenge on all that crossed him.

His grandmother knew that there would be no prize for this child, no wealth or fortune. The planet that was hers was near its end. The star that gave it life was nearing its final days. She was well aware that this boy lacked the ability and metal stamina to challenge the rites of Bahmikvah, and he had no interest in the scientific arts or the arcane, both of which could extend the life of the planet and its star. So she did what she could. Seven years prior to this day she had maneuvered herself into the harem of the Castellan, and with luck and guile, was able to conceive a child, the true seventh son. She kept him hidden—he had the markings across his chest that would indicate true ascension; as such, that boy must be kept a secret. After his weaning, he was given to a maid to be raised in the imperial court. The boy known as Arslan was tutored in the mystical arts, sciences, and medicine. He would follow the destiny of Kenroo Trillem, correcting the wrongs when possible, aiding those Kenroo would attempt to destroy, and most importantly, provide Pax Kenroo’s soul a way back to the eternal fold of time.

Trillem Pax Kenroo’s Bahmikvah was a strenuous excruciating challenge. His mother’s brother, the first son of his grandmother, arranged the tests and ordeals. Since it was up to him to provide the hack-medag or loser’s pittance, he wanted it to be exceptionally humiliating. For this, he was given Deata in Delphi Primal as his offering, his grandmother’s home world, a planet barely scrapping by. Vegetation was sporadic and the climate harsh. Only mineral deposits, which were treacherously mined, held any economic barter for those who called Deata home, and they were nearing eradication.

Bahmikvah was set up as a simulation of events. However, Trillem did not abide by these rules of conduct. His hubris led him to foster a real-time event. He and he alone sought total annihilation of what he believed to be his brother’s planet, and not his lament. When the games began, his missile launchings were true on target. His opponents rallied back with verve and justification for their losses of property and life. But the planet under siege was the true property of its destroyer. Every shot fired, every missile launch, every bullet on target or stray furthered the destruction of the only home that could afford true peace to its errant son.

The Triad came to his Bahmikvah in the splendor of conquering this puny halfling prince, albeit in simulation only. That was until Trillem Pax led the charge with a bloodthirsty, almost maniacal, obsession. His grandmother held back, wary of the surroundings and suspicious of her fey’s firstborn son. She had heard from the company of womankind, the Weyen fey, who accompanied the Triad council that treachery was to play in the games this day. She knew her first blood’s blood would spill. While the trials of manhood occurred, she hastened to the temple of the Weyen Matra-Fey to begin her acts of contrition.

The boy had been scheming mightily for days prior. He had no idea what his brother-uncles had prepared. He had relived the annals of previous Bahmikvah and collaborated on strategies for the greatest gains. He failed to take into consideration that the Bahmikvah he so lusted over were in galaxies that welcomed the event, and planned for their new leaders coming with much pageantry and display. He did not care that his event was in simulation only. He came forth with a cruel and horrific vengeance, one that racked his planet with fear and destruction.

Delphi Prime was the poorest of the poor, given only to his grandmother as a place of spiritual function. The waters and remaining mineral deposits held mystical abilities for those who believed and practiced the old matra-fey ways. Its mineable mineral deposits had long since waned, and the agrarian endeavors barely sustained the people. There was little wealth to honor even a worthy candidate, never mind an arrogant cur of a boy. It was a spiritual refuge for the believers and home to the Weyen fey. The Weyen fey practiced ritual and sacraments necessary for the preservation of life and life forces. They existed on an ethereal plane, capable of transcendence at a moment’s notice, proficient of creating from ash and ruin splendor and opulence as needed. But this group of women kept their needs simple; living instead in cloistered hermitage in the caverns and caves that dotted the hillsides within the planet of Deata.

The elder five sat in contemplating recompense when the middle one stopped, fingers extended hands aloft. I hear it too, whispered the one to her left, low and humble is its song. The smallest now sat down and strained to listen. The eldest nodded in silent agreement. Pressing a long bony finger to her slightly parted lips, she let out a long whistle. The room about the five shook slightly and only for a moment. With a flick of her bony hand, the eldest then rose and left the conclave. Candles sparkled to life as the remaining joined hands around the middle one as she resumed her silent speech. The circle of nine was gathering.

On Deata, the winds picked up in a roar. Their roots pulled up trees barely reaching into the soil. Sand and rock sailed through the air. Soldiers of the Castellan galloped amongst the population. Giddily for the sport, ecstatic that this was no longer a mild simulation of death, they lopped off heads, wild with laughter and stinking of blood and entrails. The first son of a long dead mother could do nothing but watch in muddled silence. He had no power to command these troops. His brother/uncle roared at the spectacle. Assured in his own position and power with the Castellan and this underling, he ordered the troops to halt. There was no illusion here. The stench of death was real. The boy had ordered an annihilation of a total planet’s population as if it were a video game, one that could easily reset by push of a button, and set to restart. Once it had begun, all that could happen was the beginning of a regretful devastating end. Only Trillem felt no regret as anger and contempt for those who allowed this debacle to occur rose up inside of him; his sole thought was of revenge. He was oblivious to the fact that it was his own greed that caused massive annihilation.

The silence that followed was eerie. Slowly, in the distance the wailing began. The first son of the first daughter ran, and ran. He now knew fear. There would be blood to pay. His blood. He ran until he could run no more. He fell to his knees. He pawed at the ground beneath the feet of his father. He looked up to see the Castellan shaking his head in disappointment and sorrow. He pointed his thumb downward and the boy child was dragged away. He was placed kicking and screaming into the re-claimination capsule and sent up well beyond the stratospheres, and cast adrift.

Pity, his grandmother could have spoken for and claimed this shame for herself. The banishment could prove beneficial for her. She would be free from the Castellan. Instead she sought to rectify what she could in the conclave of the wizen Weyen fey. She would act as wanderer, keeping tabs on her errant grandson until he successfully met his true fate. The true seventh son, the one on whom all mercy and benevolence was bestowed, could only wait, watch, and, when the time had come, act. But for the heir apparent, banishment was his sole fortune until his merits ran their course over time as he and he alone welcomed his real destiny.

The imprinting of the Bahmikvah had set. The boy was trapped by the treachery of his own bloodline. His fate was sealed. Life, which was Deata, was no more. The planet lay wasted and in ruins. Its populations lay ill and dying. All fecund females were slaughtered and the males castrated, all because of a young boy’s greed. The Weyen fey took refuge in the caverns when the carnage started. The entrance was sealed as the boy was led away. It was up to time to transcend destiny.

In the temple of the wizen mantra-fey, an emerald mist had enshrouded the elderly women who were now consumed by prayer. A faint hum began to permeate from the walls. The clouds above the temple blackened and crashed in crescendo with the vibrations of the temple. The faithful began to circle the Dagobah. The mist now exuded from the building as if to offer its protected blanket to the assembled. No soldier came near the temple. The haze that enveloped it and the surrounding woods was eerily mute. A few thought they had seen human forms scurrying toward its beckoning tendrils. However, the mist enshrouded the forms so quickly, it must have been a shadow. Soon the cries that accompanied the slaughter were nothing more than an echo in time. The custodians of Delphi initiated the capsule’s life regulatory systems for the regeneration mode. It was hoped that prolonged isolation and regeneration would adjust the direction of this child-man’s homogeny. Theirs was a culture of reincarnation. The past became new again. The essence of history only repeated when contrition was unattained. Total repentance could only be obtained in complete isolation. Kenroo Pax Trillem would have a long and eventful reparation.

Discovery

Trillem Kenroo was a foundling. His home planet and people exiled him after a sullen tantrum of greed, power, and lust, which resulted in the near annihilation of the planet. The council of the protectors decided unanimously that due to his age, and lack of beneficial parenting, he should be given the chance of redemption. He was cast adrift in his life pod just fifteen rotations after his birth. They could not interfere until his recreation was complete and he was placed with a family who would love and cherish him, allowing him to develop into the leader he was sorely destined to become.

His life pod was self-sufficient. He would have lived out his natural life without affiliations, without company, to atone for the sins of his spirit. It was the hope and belief of Trillem’s people that in his next recreation Trillem would have learnt his life lesson and returned to them a better, more productive individual. There was no way of foreseeing this future; no way to warn the humans who found him of his true nature.

The capsule that transported this greedy, self-entitled yelp was destined to emerge through the time space continuum on a planet void of any cognizant life-forms. Unfortunately, it careened off a passing asteroid, damaging a rear thruster, forcing a landing in the desert on the third rock from a sun in the Orion arm of the Milky Way. The capsule, partially burnt on re-entry, burrowed itself into the soft sand of the Sonora Desert. The remaining life pod all but crumbled as it crashed into the yielding sand, near the ruins of the lost Sonoran civilization. Kenroo Trillem had survived, only to be abandoned once again.

Signals

Man, in fact, all species of life seemed to be in conflict with this otherwise peaceful planet. The recent storms and geographical changes that resulted from water and wind or lack thereof were massive. Fire-ravaged areas were visible from space as much-needed rain deluged storm-soaked flood zones. Seismic shifts invoked tsunami and volcanic eruptions. Populations were disseminated either through waring fractions, natural disasters, or mere indifference. Life went on. Cosmic abnormalities were a meager blip on news forecasts, unless it accompanied a monumental land disturbance. The landing of Trillem’s capsule went largely unnoticed. Observatories noted a meteor in sync with the planet’s orbit. When it disappeared and crashed in the Sonora Desert of Arizona/New Mexico, no one took notice—not even the alien hunters that annually converged on Area 51.

And so the Weyen fey continued their Shiva. Seven sat in deep prayer as two of the nine rotated between, allowing comfort and food breaks as needed. Trillem Pax Kenroo’s grandmother was not allowed to take part in these proceedings. She was to act as gatherer, gleaning needed items as requested by the circulating two. It was her penance to serve. And wait.

Planet-side universities, whose staff of academics were convinced that natural disaster spawned societal disintegration, sent small groups of archeologists and naturalists into the various deserts of the world. Most renown was the dig site at Sonora. As hopeful PhD candidates strove for their papers’ recognition, many offered their time and expertise to dig at the various sites in the Arizona/New Mexico desert. The atomic bomb testing during the 1940s created a wellspring for anthropologists, naturalists, and physicists alike. The abundance of iron oxide created a mystic allure for those in search of spiritual guidance. And true to form, the desert was resplendent in artifacts, which either bolstered or disclaimed every paper written.

Mark Wanderhorse headed the cultural paleontology department at Arizona State University. His current thesis dealt with changing weather patterns and the emergence or disappearance of ancient civilizations. He had been part of a find in Xinjiang province in China that pre-dated the Neolithic period. It was there that he met Miles Jakison, an archeologist from Finland, who was writing a proposal on weather and its effect on mummification. The Tarim mummies lead to many fascinating discussions on weather, climate, and the advance and decline of civilizations along the trading routes of nomadic people.

Mark’s study of fossilized plant life provided him with the input to conjecture that severe weather changes occurring in a short period of time lead to the fall of the dominant civilizations. The intense shifts from extreme hot to frigid cold with accompanying fires and floods caused massive shifts in the population’s didactic. Advanced civilizations were cast back thousands of years, losing much, if not all, of the gains made by the indigenous people. Of course, this was just conjecture. He had to prove similar findings on a global scale in order to be taken seriously. The science community did not condone conjecture presented as fact. One needed hard, empirical evidence. However, for Mark, that evidence was slow in coming. Luckily for him Windsong Mourning Dove shared his exuberance.

Mark and Windsong were part of the Arapaho tribe. Both had been recipients of scholarships granted by the National Congress of American Indians. Windsong graduated from University of Montana with degrees in anthropology and forensics, while Mark excelled in the school of environment and natural resources from the University of Wyoming, taking graduate courses in archeology from Arizona State. His diligence served him well, and soon he rocketed from graduate assistant to associate professor to seated professor and then head of the department, surpassing all contenders. Some grumbled that his ethnicity was the real reason for his meteoric climb. Mark was good at his job. He was well liked by his students, many of whom he welcomed at his dig sites. He made great finds for the university and did so on a very limited budget. Of course, having a loyal following of graduate and undergraduate students to do all the heavy lifting was a plus.

Windsong was his soul mate. They met at a paleontology convention. Hers was a love of artifacts and the progression of man, from evolving tribal societies to the eventual collapse of complex civilizations. She was a forensic paleontologist. He was an environmental archeologist. They were two sides of the same coin; they both agreed that geographic changes, heightened by weather and climate, allowed society to develop, evolve, rise, and fall. They researched Mark’s theory, traveling the world in search of artifacts, bones, fossils, anything that would support Mark’s thesis.

Mark adored Windsong. Her inquiring mind saw through the puzzles that confounded him. She was able to link relics from their relative size, shape, and patterns. Her mathematical prowess was second to none. She played the lute and pan flute with a pre-renaissance aplomb. But most of all, he loved her sense of humor. It caused him to wonder and laugh out loud, something he had almost forgotten.

For Windsong, Mark was the key to her lock. She was the middle of five brilliant and beautiful sisters, and bookended by two pairs of identical twin brothers. Windsong never really came into her own as a woman until she met Mark. With him she transformed not only as a skilled academic, but as a stunning and sensual human being. She began to write and be published. She was asked to contribute to nationally select historical and scientific texts. She was his rising star. With all this acclaim, she never lost her humility. She was the yin to his yang. Together or apart, they acted as a single being.

Mark and Windsong managed to gather a moderate grant to work in a small section of Sonora in the Arizona desert. It afforded three scientists and three graduate students and all the undergraduate volunteers who were willing to commit to a summer of Arizona heat without pay, in stark conditions. They arranged access to an area just south of Area 51 in Nevada along with a stretch of land in the Sonora Floristic Province of the Madrean Region to conduct their dig. It was in Madrean that Windsong and Mark fell into the find of the century.

For this excursion Miles Jakison, was the third paid scientist. He had known Windsong in grad school, but had no interest in her other than her astute mind. Socially, he was more interested in either of her younger twin brothers. He had tried to develop a more than working relationship with Mark, but Mark made sure that Miles knew where his equilibrium lie.

Miles Jakison hailed from Finland. He was tall and blond, with piercing blue eyes and a hearty laugh. He was always up for a good laugh, and quite capable at practical jokes, much to his teammates dismay. He was the stereotypical Norseman. His doctoral dissertation discussed the plausible relationship of the Sami peoples to the Inuits of Alaska. His family claimed one-sixth Sami heritage, so Miles had access to relics from ancient Sami cultures. He initially met Mark at a conclave of indigenous peoples. Miles’ fair hair and pale complexion created quite a stir among the conspicuously native peoples until he was able to prove his ancestry to the Sami of Finland. Mark claimed that Miles was the only blond, blue-eyed native person he knew. And so three indigenous peoples led the exhibition into seeking archeological relics related to ancient civilizations in the Sonora Desert.

The noonday sun was often too hot to pursue digging, so Mark agreed to nocturnal digs with rest periods occurring during the heat of the day. However, since he slept briefly in two- to three-hour intervals, Mark and Windsong often took to exploring the local flora of the region during the heat of the day. Madrean was known for its unique variety of endemic plants, many of which proved edible, and able to sustain nomadic people as they traveled through the desert. There was a particular grove of Washingtonia filifera or California fan palm that Mark was interested in. Since it grew predominantly where underground springs and river tributaries were found, Windsong had hoped to find remnants of an ancient nomadic tribe. Mark was interested in climate changes that may have occurred during the life span of this particular species that often lived and reproduced for a hundred years or more.

When they reached the grove, Windsong started to dig at the base of a remarkable specimen. This specific palm was over 65 feet tall, with an ample growth of gray-green leaves. The canopy provided much-needed relief from the noonday sun. Mark soon joined her, at first digging alongside, brushing away remnants of leaf and seed. As Mark watched Windsong, tiny trickles of perspiration pooled along the indentation of her neck along her clavicle. Mark leaned in and kissed the moisture away. In a short time, both Mark and Windsong were caught in an amorous embrace. Tumbling to the ground, they rolled about in the shade of the giant palm, until the soft earth gave way under their combined weight. Windsong was able to roll to the side as Mark dropped a good 12 feet below. Creeping to the edge so as not to create another cascade of silt and sand, Windsong asked Mark if he was hurt.

At first breathless, Mark soon regained his composure and laughed. My dear, we have created a sinkhole, and we are not alone. Mark reached to his left and held high a skull, complete with adornment indicative of a shaman or priest. And I think there is water down here too. I can hear the light flow of a stream. Call back to base camp and let the others know of our find. Have them bring the carbon dating equipment. We need to determine how old this skull is. We must determine if it comes from the 1800s or is much older. I would guess it is part of the Mesoamerican period from the costume he is laid out in, but we need to be sure. There are artifacts indicating that this place was once a sacred ground, so we need to be extra careful not to disturb anyone’s resting place.

Like you did, Mark? innocently queried Windsong.

Exactly. Oh, Winny, have them bring trowel squares, calipers, and brushes, and don’t forget the buckets and sieves—and headlights. There appears to be several tunnel formations down here. Do you have your flashlight?

Laughing, Windsong replied, "I never leave home without it. Here I’ll toss it down to you. Now don’t stray too far. I know how you tend to get lost in your work."

Windsong alluded to a dig near Cairo wherein Mark took off down an embankment and was missing for three days until he finally surfaced ten miles away from the initial site. I’ll be waiting right here. My God, Winny, you should see what is all down here. I can sit in this spot and be happily occupied for months.

Windsong stood up, dusted herself off, adjusting her clothing as she hastened to the radio com-unit that Mark insisted every digger carry for moments just like this, or more specifically since Cairo.

Miles was manning the radio when the call came in. As he jotted down the coordinates and the list of items, Mark required. Should we just pack up and move to this new site? he joked. It would appear that you are asking for everything but the mess.

Yes, agreed Windsong, we will need food too, but I would not abandon camp yet. We are not bugging out, just searching in a more abundant spot.

Miles rang the dinner gong, waking all of the camp who hurried to the sound. Okay, everyone, the boss has made an amazing discovery. He and Winny want all hands on board. Get your gear, gather some snackies and plenty of water. It looks like we might be digging into the night.

Miles, are we bugging out? asked a petite grad student named Nancy.

No, we still have a claim here, albeit just some fossilized flora and an arrowhead or two. No, Winny said they found a skull and artifacts that may indicate a Mesoamerican burial spot of a high priest or shaman. Here are the coordinates. Take everything of value, but leave the tents for now. Let’s get there then we will determine if we bug out or not.

As if on cue, the com-unit crackled. This time it was Mark on the other end. Miles, you are not going to believe this. Collect everything. We are bugging out to these coordinates. This is huge. I have a full skeleton, complete wardrobe, medicine bowls, amulets, and a labyrinth of tunnels. My god, man, get everyone, call back to the university if you have to. Bring in all the volunteers. You are not going to believe this. And then the line went dead.

Well, ladies and gents, you heard the man. Gather your gear, deconstruct the camp, load up the Jeeps, and sally forth. We have a find to unearth.

The initial find, Trillem’s landing site

Trillem Oornek’s effigy was simple and sparsely defined. It touted his travels, or at least some of them, in hieroglyphic displays. The symbols spanned several known cultures and some indiscernible; perhaps childlike in written effort, others quite ornate and decisive. The pictographs told tales, harrowing and traumatic in detail, always of a travel starting and ending with a change in venue and orientation. But always returning to an underground complex of caves and caverns. Oddly, as Trillem’s burial site was being unearthed and his spectre developed, the site grew. The original artifacts were from Deata; similar in function and form to that of Earth’s indigenous people. However, as the dig progressed and Trillem was allowed to manifest through time and space, the contents of the cave multiplied. Soon relics from every culture and time period of man were to be found in the labyrinth maze confabulation of caves. And with each artifact of gruesome intent, Trillem’s malicious persona grew.

Windsong and Mark began to explore the hole as soon as they stopped celebrating. It was an immeasurable find. An entire skeleton in ceremonial dress, a pictographic biography, tools, art, home effects as well as some personal items. It was a treasure trove of archeological delights. Mark considered the numbers of employable techs and scientists as Windsong contemplated on civilizations and types of societies that were described in this apparent homage to a traveler of time, space, and civilizations. Both realized the historical and academic significance of the find. Soon they were embraced, hugging, jumping, and whooping, which soon brought several other scientists to the tryst site.

Miles Jakison was the first to peer into the hole. You need a light? he queried.

Yes, shouted back Mark, bring a rope, radio the others. This is historical, monumental! At least 5 to 7 years to uncover, and another 20 to catalogue. Not to mention deliberate over.

YOU mean fight over, Miles shouted back.

I figure enough work for 50 grad students in 30 different fields.

Miles let Mark ramble on as he called for support. Miles knew Mark tended to exaggerate, but this had to be some find. He soon heard Windsong’s excited warble, a hollow echo at first and then louder as she approached the entrance. Miles, there is a series of caves down here. Each one reads in a different hieroglyphic or picto-glyphic display. I even think there is an ancient Chinese script along one of the walls. And artifacts, pots, kitchenware, I think, even papyrus, maybe? Not sure, but there is so much stuff and it is mostly intact. Mark is not exaggerating. There is enough for 20 Ph.D.’s with a full staff of grad students, and volunteers. Winny, as Windsong was known to her friends and crew, had her cell with her, carefully taking photos of everything she had seen. This is unbelievable, Miles, and to think if Mark and I were not digging under that grove of palms …

Seeking private time, smirked Miles.

Whatever, you lecherous perv. Regardless, our liaison gave birth to the most extraordinary find of the millennium!

Wonder what else you’ll be giving birth to, snickered Miles.

To avoid Windsong’s angry retort, Miles quickly radioed back an all-call alert for all available personnel still at the camp to follow the given coordinates for a new and unusual discovery. He then placed a call to the archeology department at the university to call out to all available graduate and undergraduate student who needed volunteer time to hasten to the site. Soon everyone from the dig was on site, measuring, calculating, and annotating data within 20 minutes of the all call, tweeting and texting the artifacts as each professional and para excitedly entered the new site’s parameters.

By nightfall a call was placed to the university’s regents informing them of the discovery. Soon every smartphone and tablet was cataloging and recording the find. Within 72 hours, every bona fide scientist with a remote interest in history, geology, forensics, or archeology was clamoring to be part of the dig. Since Mark and Windsong made the discovery, Miles was tasked to dividing the workload as caravans of researchers and technicians applied to be part of the unearthing.

Topside the geologists were sounding out proximity to the caverns, while spelunkers were braving the hollows below. Most of the grottos sprung forth from centrifugal cul-de-sacs and, as time and further study would disclose, foretold of parallel events with modified historical accountings. But the immediate effort was in shoring up the crumbling walls and ceiling as academics and students catalogued and recorded the immense find. Niko Poppolopodous and Particia Mundari from the University of Chicago Oriental Institute were the first to come bearing gifts of additional funding providing they had first crack at any artifact that bore Middle Eastern or Asian origins.

As increasing numbers of students and scientists came to explore the find, the find grew. It was as if the anticipation of discovery fostered actual discovery. If a fraction sought an answer to be buried in Sonora, it was found within the site. Expectations were delivered, regardless of how diverse or foreign to the soil in which they were buried. Trillem exalted by their eagerness. For every answer sought, there was a tale of woe and horror. Trillem fed on this hope. As hope grew out of despair, the greater the faith the greater the misery. Religious artifacts held the greatest rewards, and it was because of religions idolatry that Trillem would begin to regain corporeal presence.

Careful not to remove or disturb the relics, the teams immersed themselves feverously, nearly forgetting their original duty to the university that was funding the initial find. It was Niko Poppolopodous and Particia Mundari who brought the teams back in focus several hours later when a joint email arrived from the University of Chicago and Arizona State alerted the team that the chancellor was bringing certain alumni and cultural attaches to the site the next day. Mark wanted to bring the new site up as the find extraordinaire. Miles insisted on remaining true to the stated objective, the site of a lost Aranama village. It was Windsong who suggested that the sites were linked, perhaps via the underground caves that seemed to go on forever and that the student crews should remain at the original site while the academics and their favored crews could each take a tunnel, crevice, or hollow to explore.

The Dig Site

The capsule that held Trillem Pax Kenroo began to collect relics as soon it hit the atmosphere of the planet below. Life-forms from Precambrian through Paleozoic, through Mesozoic to the Cenozoic were all represented in fossilized form, but it was the Neogene period, specifically the Holocene, that interested the life-force of Trillem the most. The age of man, whose trials, tribulations, and most importantly, holocausts and periods of mass annihilation excitedly stirred his soul. Religion initiated the worst scenarios of greed and destruction. More carnage was sought in the name of God than any over land, water, or gold. His curiosity piqued when mankind developed gunpowder. And when man’s need for military dominance developed the atom bomb, Trillem was almost giddy in delight. Such a weapon, such potential for destruction. He wistfully thought, had he that weapon during his Bahmikvah, this incarceration would not have occurred. He would have reigned jubilant, Castellan Prime for all to worship and revere. He began to plot, oblivious to the fact that he no longer held a corporeal form. He would obtain that device and he would return to Deata to claim his justified prize. All that was for him to do was to escape this wretched ovoid.

Artifacts littered the caves many tunnels. No two tunnels contained relics from the same cultural base or the same time period. It was as if the caves housed a museum of objects from multiple cultures over time. Some were representative of native people from all over the Americas; others were seemingly European, Middle Eastern, or Egyptian; still others more Oriental in design. But most intriguing was the egg-shaped ovoid found in the center of the largest bifurcation. The metal housing was seamless. Too heavy to lift. Requiring portable X-ray and CAT scan machines to be brought in, but to no avail. Nothing could see in and nothing manmade could break it open.

True to Windsong’s initial speculation, several universities, including the natural history section of the Smithsonian, were interested in the find. Soon money poured in from all over the world—Botswana, Cairo, Beijing, Tianjin, Museum of Natural History and Technology, Shiraz, Kanagawa Prefectural Museum of Natural History, Japan, and not to mention London, Paris, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Austria, Belarus, and Russia. Everyone wanted to send a team to review this historic find. Papers were to be written. Careers were to be made. Individuals were destined for lecture circuits as popular media qualified reports and articles were written for televised specials, which speculated on the origins and derivations of the discovery. For every interested delegation, a tunnel grew, peppered with relics important to that era in time. Items lost to weather or seismic events were prominent. Artifacts that were pilfered in war or hidden from time wondrously found their way to these caves, and no one questioned how they got there. No one seemed to care beyond what they would claim for their sponsoring agency. Greed marched on, battle lines were being drawn, invisible at first as each team was cordial, polite, and politically correct. This too would crumble as Trillem Pax Kenroo would grow, spreading avarice among the teams.

Strangely there were no skeletal remains other than the first set fell upon by Mark during his and Windsong’s coupling. Their first thought was that the skeletal remains were that of a watchman or curator of the mound. It was slight in stature and Windsong speculated that it might be that of a woman. However, both Mark and Miles ardently disagreed with her, stating that the pelvis indicated it was male, perhaps an adolescent boy, one who was being trained as a warrior priest and left to guard the opening, protecting the artifacts scattered within. Carbon dating proved most complex. For it seemed that each bone dated from a different time period, and each period was represented through an artifact found deeper within the caverns. Even the skull was a conundrum. Facial and cranial bones indicated different centuries. However, they fit so precisely together that forensic scientists were at a loss.

Some felt that the dating process was flawed due to the radioactivity that this area experienced during the atomic bomb testing of the 1940s, and yet, none of the artifacts reacted to the radiation tests, only the skeletal bones. Oddly it was Niko Poppolopodous, an archeologist, and Mario Calpuzzio, a quantum physicist, who theorized that the skeleton was representative of a single ancestry and that each of the bones was pieced together in an effort to maintain a spiritual bond with the artifacts. They tested each of the bones individually and then sent them off for blind dating at Columbia University using the uranium-thorium dating process. The uranium-thorium method supported Mark Wanderhorse’s supposition that climate and weather affected civilizations and society, but it did not explain how each and every bone represented a different point in time.

The skeleton was Trillem Kenroo’s last corporeal being. When his pod crashed, his physical being was excised from the capsule, much like a snake shedding its skin. However, Trillem’s spirit remained locked until it could be released at a later date and time, preferable one in which he would be totally reformed, renewed, and reborn. But this was not his fate. The Council of the Protectorate was aghast.

This was not the destiny we decreed.

Where did it go wrong, asked another.

How did this happen? asked a third.

What are we to do, inquired a fourth.

Silence all, calmly stated the Supreme Mother, the Matriarch. It has happened. We cannot undo that which has been done. There is a parallel that must be contended with. We will wait. It will be returned as it need to be. I spoke to the Oracle. She informs me that it will happen as planned. Trillem will have his proper Bahmikvah. We will assist as needed when the time comes.

Trillem’s grandmother began to wail. The blood is on my hands. If only I had not been so weak, so selfish. If I stood up to the Castellan and denied my daughter, she would be alive today and we would not have to repair this event.

Lo now, Mother, quietly stated the Supreme, you could only do what had happened. All that was had to be, and all that is, will be now. There is no then, there is no later, it is all now and now it will be. We will watch and intervene only as the Oracle advises. You cannot berate fate; destiny is. Remember Arslan. He too has a share in the fate of Trillem Pax Kenroo.

But what of the girl? asked one of the Weyen fey.

The girl has yet to be. We cannot influence that which has not become. She is a mere echo.

But it was her conception that brought Trillem’s capsule into light. Although she is not here in form, she is in spirit and while Trillem is still narcissistic in his resolve, it will be her actions, substance, and form that will absolve or condemn Trillem’s fate.

So be it, stated the Supreme Mother. When Trillem regains a more substantial configuration, and the girl is, then we can intercede, then and only then. Now we wait and pray.

The skeleton fascinated all who viewed it. It was small and definitely male in gender, and its costume and head gear suggested a Mesoamerican tribe, but none of the archeologists could ascribe it to just one culture. It was Mario who stipulated that a single family unit was tasked with retrieval of the artifacts, and perhaps the adornments were specific to a position and not necessarily a tribe or culture. He further suggested that each generation was the keeper of the relic specific to their time. He insisted that, as each of the relics was contained in this labyrinth of caves, the seeker donated his or her bone as an offering to its maintenance and security. Niko maintained that the skeleton’s bones were offerings, hinged together like some twisted maladroit scarecrow.

It was Windsong who most obstinately disagreed. Her knowledge of forensic paleontology now grounded her assumption that the skeleton was totally male and that it was from one single source and not a long lineage as speculated by Mario. It most certainly was not hastily or clumsily arranged. It was not long until heated arguments ensued.

When I heard that you and Mark made this find and it was of such an extraordinary treasure, it was myself, Particia, and Niko who twisted arms in Chicago to grant you a much-needed flow of funds, Winny. Why must you be so stubborn!

And we all appreciate that, but do not forget that it was conceded that the University of Chicago had first dibs on all things Asian and Middle Eastern.

"Until Cairo, Beijing,