The Backward Time Traveler

“What an imaginative and thrilling journey.”
“An unusual story supported with smart dialogue. Recommended.”

Chapter 1

Keera discovered the monk early in the evening.
“We need to talk,” he said, sitting on her couch, hands clasped over his belly.
“We talk all the time. What’s so special about tonight?” she asked, waiting in the living room doorway.
“There’s a situation.” Bardo shifted. “A face-to-face is needed.”
“What kind of situation?”
“It starts a few years back.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“You know we hate to do that,” he said with a shrug.
Her spirit guide of the last few years looked as solid as any flesh. Once, she had tried touching him; her fingers found nothing. His robe was coarse and creased, his bowl-cut hair needed a trim. Did mirrors exist in Bardo’s world?
“And I fit in…how?”
“It’s hard to explain. May I show you instead?”
“As in a vision?”
“No, as in a visit.”
The astral. A trip to other dimensions that illuminated, dazzled, or confused, often leaving her fuzzed out for days. “I have a class to lecture in the morning,” she said. “I’d prefer a clear head.”
“You’ll be clear as a moonbeam.”
Keera gave up. She sat opposite him, pulling two cushions to the floor.
“I’m not promising anything, you understand.”
“Agreed.”
She closed her eyes. “Take me away.”
Separating from her body without Bardo’s help could be a long process, but tonight, it took seconds. She lifted into rushing darkness, borne forward to an unknown destination.
Dim light broke through, and tipis appeared alongside a creek, horses grazing nearby. It was night, Bardo a shadowy figure close by. A fire blazed at the edge of the camp, people gathered around in buffalo robes. Children ran free, chasing each other.
This was no painted village for tourists; the ground was a patchwork of horse droppings, small fire pits, and buffalo hides stretched on rawhide lines.
They glided into the camp, the air thick with the smell of woodsmoke, and something wild and earthy. She passed through a cottonwood tree, the leaves streaking a shocking cold and damp through her ethereal body. This, she had never figured out: how she received physical sensations without a physical body.
They entered a tipi by penetrating the hide wall. The interior air was smoky, greasy. Inside, three adults were focused on a boy, no older than ten, lying on a pile of skins. His chest was coated with sweat, his legs kicking in a weak, frantic rhythm.
The boy has an infected wound. This kills within forty-eight hours. Bardo’s thoughts filled her consciousness.
A healer unwrapped a cloth bundle with concentrated reverence. A ragged stone, the size of a man’s fist, lay in his palm. Its crystalline structure contained orange flecks with blue striations, and a powerful energy emanated from it.
He lowered the stone onto the boy’s chest and began to sing, his voice building into a powerful, pulsing vibration. Hey-a-a-hey!
Within minutes, the boy’s breathing eased, his legs stilled. The mother let out a cry of thanks, a hesitant smile on her face. The father, stoic and hard-faced, remained silent, showing nothing of what roiled inside him. That was the way of these people; Keera had met enough of them to know. 
Suddenly, the blackness returned, and she floated in space before light reappeared. She was over a roadside parking area, a wooden board announcing a historic site.
Wounded Knee. South Dakota. Present day.
Her senses were filled with the terrible history of the place. She searched for any living forms, any energy trace of the awful moment when the US Army’s 7th Cavalry opened fire on several hundred men, women, and children, and slaughtered half of them.
But nothing remained but a sign saying once there was something here—something terrible. Bardo’s thoughts seeped into her mind: reminders have their place.
The tug of returning pulled at her, and she found herself back in her living room. To ground herself, she moved through a series of slow stretches.
“What was that all about?” she asked aloud.
“You were right,” Bardo said from a kitchen chair. “An Oglala camp, two hundred years ago, and today.”
She flicked on her battered chrome kettle. “To show me stuff I already know? That those people do it tough?”
“The Oglala need help,” Bardo said. “And for more than physical healing. They call the stone the Wakan Inyan, the Sacred Stone. It’s more than a relic—it’s their spirit.”
He paused as Keera poured hot water over chamomile leaves. “We want you to bring it back to the present.”
The cup rattled in its saucer. “What?”
“The Oglala of today exist as a poor version of what they once were,” Bardo continued. “The Stone will re-ignite their ancient spirit and assist them to right the wrongs done to them.”
“How?” she asked, her mind racing. “A solid can’t travel through non-physical dimensions.”
“You’ll find a way.”
“Why me? The Stone must exist somewhere in the present day.”
“We showed it for a reason. You’ve been chosen.”
Bardo hadn’t answered her question. She tried again. “But why me?” 
“That’s what I said, but I was told to follow orders.”
An old joke, a reminder he regarded her as the less-than-ideal student, too independent minded for one thing. Too argumentative for another. 
“Wouldn’t an Oglala be more appropriate? I only observe these people and their lives; I’m not one of them.” 
“Detachment is an asset. An Oglala’s belief in spirits and omens would hinder him.”
The mission was a mountain. Retrieve a physical object from the past, through a non-physical dimension, to the present. It was insane.
“I’m not the right person for this. I’m an academic, not an Indiana Jones.”
“You know how the Oglala live now,” Bardo said, working her guilt button. “Should they continue like that, or are you willing to do a small thing to assist them?”
There was no way out. A refusal would haunt her forever.
“By the way,” Bardo added. “You’ll be working with another.”
“What kind of other—a medium?”
Bardo smiled. “Oh no. A normal human, a little wayward, but he owns a good heart. We like him; you need him.”
“He’ll be useless.”
“The reason for his presence will become apparent in time. Call, he comes.”
“Please tell me how.” 
“Announce what you have seen.” 
“Announce?” What was he thinking? “You understand what will happen to my career if I bounce around spouting out-of-body stories?”  
“Bang the drum discreetly.”
The chair grew emptier as Bardo left her plane.
Keera Miles, Assistant Professor of Anthropology, ran her fingers through her hair in frustration.
One trip, one thorough trip to the Oglala camp was worth twenty years of research. She would have to stay in their midst, with access to first-hand knowledge of the way the people lived and thought. She’d observe customs close up, take part in ceremonies. Be one of them, at least for several days, maybe more.
The expedition of a lifetime, and she had to partner up with a stranger. Like her task wouldn’t be tough enough, she had to baby some guy through the bewildering world of the next dimension.
Pain and gain in equal measure.
She threw a look at the ceiling. “Thanks, Bardo, you’ve made my night.”
You’re welcome.

Chapter 2

Feliks the loan shark sat in a Polish restaurant on North Milwaukee. On the table was a bottle of vodka, a small bowl of caviar nestled in ice, and a plate of sliced rye bread.
He raised a glass and waved for Zach to sit. A waitress placed a chilled glass on the table. Feliks poured.
“Nazdrowie,” he said. “Good health.”
Zach threw the vodka down his throat. “I need a loan.”
Feliks refilled both glasses, a slight smile on his face. “Your car? Needing mechanical attention so soon?”
He was referring to his 1966 Rangoon Red Mustang GT 500. It drove like a dream and chewed through money like a paper shredder. But after three years, it thrilled him still. “The car is fine. I need money for an investment.”
Feliks spooned caviar onto the bread. “How much?”
“Ten thousand.”
“The vig is three hundred dollars a week. That’s a lot.”
“It’s a lot because you’re a natural capitalist born in the wrong place,” Zach countered, echoing a line he’d once heard about Feliks.
The little Pole laughed, a machine gun crackle. “I am not socialist; I am efficient businessman. The rate reflects risk. The Harvard Business books say that.”
“You’re an unlicensed moneylender; you’re already taking risks.”
Feliks lit a Marlboro with a slim gold lighter. “For ten, I should ask for collateral. I think your car is all you have.”
“Nobody gets the car,” Zach said. “I’m good for the money; you know that.”
Feliks blew smoke. “Today I am simple moneylender; tomorrow I am new Rockefeller. I am learning much. I know that repeat business is the best business, which is why I treat you nice. Also, customer service is important, which is why you get money tomorrow. Vig is three hundred dollars.”
“That’s way too much.” The interest rate of a hundred and fifty percent per annum was crippling.
Feliks drained his glass. “If you want a handout, go to church. I give you clean notes, straight from a quality bank.” He eyed Zach with curiosity. “What investment interests you? Information not available to ordinary persons?”
Zach did have valuable information, from his college roommate Lyndon, about a horse in Epsom, England. Lyndon, who worked for a British merchant bank but lived for the turf, had called him with a lead. A horse named “Sleeper” that had won its first race at twelve-to-one, lost a few at tighter odds, and was now back at eights. Lyndon had already “trousered thousands.”
“It’s the bet of the year,” Lyndon had insisted. “Send me your fun money before Wednesday, and I’ll get you top odds. You’ll love me forever.”
Zach had thought about it for half an hour. One grand could return eight. Ten grand, eighty. It was a long shot, given his own betting record, but the potential was too great to ignore.
Now, he said, “My information is so confidential, if I told you, I’d be sleeping with the salmon.”
“I understand,” Feliks said sourly. “The secrets of the universe are not for everybody. How long will you require this money?”
“One week. Short-term.”
“Very well. Because you are a good customer, I will not ask for collateral. Still three hundred a week.”
The interest rate was astonishing, but he’d maxed out his cards. Feliks’s money would do for now. One week’s vig was a small price to pay for a shot at eighty thousand dollars.
“Okay. Three hundred a week it is.”
“Come back tomorrow. Your first installment is due on Thursday.”
“Thursday? Are you kidding? The money tomorrow, the vig the next day?”
Feliks smiled. “The calendar of capitalism has its own logic. Do you still wish to borrow?”
The little Pole was double-dipping him, charging six hundred dollars to borrow ten grand for a few days. Six hundred bucks. It was infuriating. But it was also his only shot.
“Yeah,” Zach said. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Outside, a bag lady halted as he stepped onto the sidewalk and measured him with rheumy eyes. Zach dug into his jeans and plucked out a bill. A twenty. Damn. He fished around his pockets for smaller denominations but didn’t find any. What the hell. He’d be collecting ten large tomorrow; he could spare it.
The woman accepted the proffered note carefully and held it up to the light.
“You think it’s a forgery?” he asked. “You lose nothing even if it is.”
The bill must have passed the test; she stuffed it somewhere in her outsized overcoat.
“May Jesus smile upon you today,” she mumbled and shuffled away. Smiling would be good; laughing, not so much.

◆◆◆

Keera opened her door to Kenton Maxworthy from the Chicago Post. “Hello,” he said, “I’m—”
“Yes, I know.” She offered her hand.
He was late forties, stocky, with a ponytail and a black zipped hoodie over greasy skinny-leg jeans. His whole dog-eared life was on public display, and his smirky grin made her heart sink. She knew instantly he wouldn’t listen. He was the kind who preferred talking about himself.
She led him down the hall, gesturing to one of the sofas. Maxworthy whistled. “Nice place you have.” He ran a finger along the mother-of-pearl filigree on the coffee table. “Fortune telling paying off well, is it?” he asked, in a way he hoped it wasn’t.
“I don’t tell fortunes,” she said, keeping her voice even.
He leaned forward. “Your press release was pretty short. A healing force? Is this something new or just old dressed up? I know ’em all—crystals, UFOs, alien implantations, crop circles, magnetic people, etcetera, etcetera. Nice top, by the way.” His gaze lingered on her chest.
Keera eyed him with distaste. This wasn’t what she wanted. This wasn’t a professional. He didn’t notice she hadn’t replied.
“You’re a psychic, right?” he said. “I’m a bit psychic myself. I see us having a drink later in a real buzzy kind of place.”
She ignored his prediction. “What section of your paper are you from?”
“I’m freelance, actually. The editor gave me your press release—‘deal with this,’ she said. The regulars wouldn’t touch this stuff, but the eds know I don’t mind it. I write liner notes for bands, too. Anyway, enough about me. Tell me what you have, and then we can have that drink. Ever tried a saketini?”
She stood. “I don’t think you’re the right outlet for what I have.”
Maxworthy stayed seated. “You sure? People take notice when they see my byline.”
“Sorry.” She moved to the front door and threw it open. “Sorry to have wasted your time.”
“What’s the problem, babe? You want a story or not?”
“I do, but it has to be handled correctly. Goodbye.”
She extended a hand—a mistake. Maxworthy grabbed her fingers, his thumb circling the back of her hand. “The drink offer is still good,” he said, trying for meaningful eye contact.
Keera slipped her hand out of his, backed into the hall, and closed the door. She stalked into the living room. “Holy God,” she exploded. “Why did you let me get that one?”
Bardo had reverted to his physical form, occupying Maxworthy’s place on the sofa. “You didn’t ask,” he said calmly. “We don’t volunteer information as a rule. We like to be asked.”
“So what gives with this assistant you’re forcing on me?” Keera lit two scented candles to banish any lingering trace of Maxworthy. “I never lean on anyone to accomplish a task.”
“You’ll achieve more with cooperation. It’s a lesson.”
“Great. Another one.” She glared out the window. “I just don’t see it happening. Convincing a novice to separate from his body and work with me? That’s impossible.”
“Your helper has no psychic ability; that’s true. But he’s confident in any situation.”
“So is a large dog. Can we have a more rigorous selection procedure?”
Bardo ignored her. “His target body already hears voices. He won’t resist a new one, not even one that controls his limbs. He’ll get all the help he needs.”
“Voices?”
“Mischievous entities. They do no harm. We’ll banish them at the right time.” He paused. “In that society, you’ll need a man. You’ll also require his help afterward.”
“Is he going to make moves on me like this one did?” she asked.
“He’s a man.”
Terrific. A novice, a cynic, and probably an ass grabber as well.
“He’ll be an addition to your life. Not a burden.”
“He’s sure taking his time turning up. I sent out five press releases and only got one response. You saw the quality of that.”
“You’ll get a new response soon.”
“Another greasy applicant?”
“Observe the quality of the man behind the speech. Make your decision. It is your task, nobody else’s.”
“When will he come?” she asked.
“He has issues to overcome first. He complicates his life. When he appears, you’ll know him.”
“How?”
“He’ll refuse to help.”

Chapter 3

Zach pushed open the glass doors to Cityscape’s editorial area. No one raised a hand in greeting; no one met his eye. He draped his jacket over his chair.
Nicola, the twenty-year-old intern at the next desk, hammered a keyboard. “Hi,” she said, her eyes still fixed on the screen.
He knew he was in trouble. He lowered his head to her level. “I’m fine, thanks for asking. How was your evening?”
“Um, good. Can’t stop. Edwina wants this right away.” She bashed the keyboard. “Made me rewrite it because of two adverbs in one paragraph. She wants to see you, too. ASAP.”
“Figured something was up. She in a good mood?”
“So not in a good mood with you, Zach.” Nicola looked up at him, her sweet baby brown eyes magnified by her glasses. “You’ll get a telling off, I reckon.”
“Getting used to them,” he replied.
Edwina Moss was the latest editor-in-chief, unhappily in her forties with a figure cut trim by a rigorous diet of salads and stress. She knew how to be nasty.
But it didn’t matter. Earlier today, at about ten a.m. Chicago time, his sure thing in the UK had raced. Lyndon would call any minute with the news that his buddy Zach was eighty thousand richer. That kind of money made a man confident, able to wear any stormy editor with relaxed equanimity.
Edwina, on the phone in her glass-walled office, spotted him. She bent her fingers, beckoning like a traffic cop.
“Good luck,” Nicola whispered.
Edwina waved him to a seat. “Tell me, Bones, when did you have the operation?”
“What operation?”
She leaned forward. “The one where the doctors removed your brain and filled the space with porridge?”
Nicola had it right; it was going to be a big telling off. For what?
“What do you have against Alderman Dufresne?” Edwina asked.
Ah, the Dufresne interview. “He only looks after his own,” Zach said. “The crime rate is down where his voters live—the tonier end of town—because the policing there gets more resources. The rest of us benefit little. He’s very pally with big money, and his major interest is positioning himself for the mayor’s desk in the near future.”
Edwina regarded him with unconcealed irritation. “For God’s sake, Bones, did you just wake up after a twenty-year nap? Dufresne is no bleeding-heart liberal. He regards politics as business.”
“The interview was as bland as I could make it.”
“Caspar, you recall him? Caspar Weiss, the owner of this periodical? He called me last night.”
“He’s a pal of Dufresne’s?”
“Oh yes. Dufresne called him because Harvey got to him during the evening to check something in your copy. And Dufresne was shrill with indignation. Caspar was not exactly subdued either when we spoke.”
“What was Harvey doing? He’s not the fact checker.” Harvey was the chief copy editor and a sniveling weasel, whose idea of “shaping the story” was butchering a perfect piece. Their mutual antipathy exploded into heated verbal exchanges most weeks.
Edwina said, “He spotted a paragraph where you claimed Dufresne was keen to build a monument to the suffering of the LGBTQ community.”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes. Oh, that.”
“Well, it’s what he said, all right, but—”
“Impossible. He would line up all the LGBTQ people in town and shoot them if the law allowed. Harvey, like all of us, knows this. He called Dufresne’s office for confirmation. Dufresne denied it and then contacted Caspar and threatened to wreck all his future property development applications if this magazine printed anything that suggested he was tolerant.”
Edwina took a drink of water from a cut glass. “To save me listening to the recording,” she said, “could you please repeat for me word for word what you asked and what Dufresne said?”
Zach cleared his throat. “I asked if he thought it was a good idea to erect a monument to acknowledge the suffering of LGBTQ people in our community.”
“And?”
“And he said, ‘yeah, right,’ which I took as an affirmative.”
She stared at him as if he had crawled out of a stinking garbage can. “Oh my freaking aunt. I don’t believe this. You put this paper in jeopardy just to satisfy some juvenile urge to stick it to somebody in a high place and nearly cost me my job and Caspar’s next deal.”
She swallowed more water like it should have been whiskey. “Can I explain our position to you? We run a simple city lifestyle magazine. What we don’t do is rock the boat, especially when it could cost money. Dufresne has many friends who advertise with us now but might not in the future. Get the picture?”
He nodded. He didn’t bother explaining that he had only left in the quote as a joke, something for the water cooler. Harvey, the bastard, had deliberately made the joke backfire.
“Caspar wants you out.”
“Fine by me,” Zach said. He should have switched to an internet news site ages ago. The print business had all the growth potential of silent movies.
“However, I talked him out of it.” She gave him her cobra smile. “I said I would have you covering shopping mall events. Appearances by minor television celebrities, singers who once lasted thirty seconds on a crappy TV talent show, special offers to mark ten years of a discount outlet. That sort of thing.” She swallowed the last of the water in triumph.
“You do that; I resign.” He couldn’t let her humiliate him.
The bitch smiled wider. “You can’t without repaying all your bonuses. It’s a tight contract, and we won’t hesitate to enforce it.”
The fucking bonuses. He should have seen this coming. He’d signed the new contract and forgotten it. Now, those bonuses added up to almost half a year’s salary. Which he didn’t have. Until his bet came in. He could wait another afternoon.
Edwina took his silence for surrender. “I have a couple of interesting stories for you already.” She slipped on reading glasses and peered at a press release sheet.
“Here’s a good one. Brackeneck Farms is installing a petting zoo in the Westlakes Mall for the school break. They’ll have goats, sheep, and chickens so little children can experience a natural way of life in the safety of a shopping center.”
She raised her eyes. “This is a wonderful opportunity for some cute observations and maybe a human-interest angle. Let’s say about two hundred and fifty words of warm prose?”
He stared at the floor.
Edwina picked up and perused another sheet. “Oh look, a top story screaming to be published. A psychic will reveal a new healing force in the world, but only to personal interviewers. No picture attached, Bones, but I suspect she’s about sixty-five and colors her own hair. She’ll want to charge you for the interview. If you pay, it comes out of your pocket. I won’t okay it.”
She handed the press releases to him. “Let me have those stories by tomorrow, will you? I’ll have more by then, but I can’t guarantee they’ll be as exciting as these.” She waved him to the door.
Zach was halfway back to his desk when his cell chirped into life. He checked the screen. London calling. This was it.
“So, buddy boy,” he said, “how much are you transferring to my account?”
“Brace yourself, Zach,” Lyndon said. “The dumb beast ran home in the middle of the field.”
“Say again?” A cavity opened up inside him; all his hopes dived in.
“Somebody made arrangements, got it boxed in, couldn’t get a clear run. Most unexpected. Most suspicious.”
“You. Are. Kidding.”
“What can I say?”
Lyndon was getting all breezy like he didn’t know Zach’s ten Gs was more than play money.
“The dark forces of the racing world win again. But we’ll be back. The word is it peeved certain people to be left out of our little plan. Discussions are being held. Hold the front page, Zach, the silver lining grows every day. Gather your pennies together.”
“Like how?” As if he could dig up another sizable stake. “There’s a discrepancy in our earning capacities, have you noticed? You gamble mega millions in pension funds to enrich your company and yourself while I battle the forces of evil and get paid in mouse droppings.”
“You’ve nailed our respective situations perfectly. Look, I dropped a few large ones myself, if it makes you feel better. I’ll call when the moment arrives.”
“That’s so comforting,” he said, and hit the END icon.
An eventful day so far. Ten grand poorer, not fired but humiliated, and the best was yet to come—the talk with Feliks.
He’d missed a payment.

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