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Title: TIMEKEEPER IIAuthor: JOHN ATKINSONEdition: 1st Trade PaperbackISBN: : 978-1-926715-11-7Pages: 150 Price: $15.95Season: Fall 2010Publication Date: Sept 21, 2010Fiction / Literary

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What others are saying about Timekeeper II

In Timekeeper II, the protagonist, Johnnyboy/Timekeeper, con-tinues the journey begun in the first book, Timekeeper I, al-though, because of his vision quest on the Sacred Mountain, he can now live up to his Native American–bestowed name and unfold his tale on multiple planes and through multiple blocks of time.

This extra angle adds much to Timekeeper II, through his first-person narration, Atkinson takes the reader back in time to experience events only hinted at in Timekeeper I. His experience of prejudice and intolerance from both sides of the family as a half-blood Indian are revealed in poignant vignettes, called up as the protagonist makes a second journey in an effort to bet-ter understand his heritage and embrace his role as storyteller (complicated by the fact that he is illiterate for most of the early part of his life).

Timekeeper’s ability to seek information through dreams and visions breaks the bounds of traditional storytelling and brings the reader across nearly a century of U.S. history as it relates to the mistreatment of Native Americans by the military and the local townsfolk. Johnnyboy’s struggle to find common ground between the traditional beliefs of his mother and the Christian-ity of his father’s people provides a lesson for us all.

Readers interested in Native American (specifically Sioux) ceremonies such as sweat lodge and sun dance will find the nar-rative particularly appealing, as will students of shamanism.

Atkinson’s prose is in fine form, with plenty more of his colorful expressions like, “worshippers spread out in pews like crushed red pepper on barbequed ribs,” that make his writing such a delight to read.

—New Mystics, Joey Madia

Timekeeper II

by

John Atkinson

il piccolo editionsby

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 actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Timekeeper IICopyright © 2010 by John Atkinson

First EditionISBN 978-1-926715-11-7

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I went to the Sacred Mountain in the flesh, but didn’t see it clearly until I returned in a ghost world dream.

My mother, Morning Song, taught me about the spirit world. Although a Plains Indian, she lived back East in Glen Allen, Virginia. In May 1959 I ran away from home and my abusive father who’d put the fear of God in me. I was fourteen and il-literate, but determined to find where I fit in.

That year I met a powerful medicine man in Oklahoma I called “Chief.” Chief called me “Timekeeper.” He sent me on a vision quest to a Sacred Mountain in Canada. As I was returning to him, my guardian protector, Check dog, was killed. Hope was lost until I met a dying Indian on a California desert who could see into the ghost world. He told me he saw Check roaming among the People in the outer land. The old man saw deep into my soul and said I lived up to my new name, Timekeeper. Then, still in a spirit world vision, the dying man pointed to Morning Song. He wanted me to go back home, but passed away before explaining why. I’d left my mother with her vile-tempered man and I prayed for her safety. The way things were, I couldn’t help my mother until I met again with Chief. I needed the strong medicine power he’d said I would have after my journey to the Sacred Mountain.

Chapter 1

Oklahoma, 1960

Back on the Indian Reservation, I raced toward Chief’s haci-enda, my vision quest completed. Tarpaper shacks lined both sides of the dirt land. Red earth around houses was packed hard from little feet that would never go far in life. Grass wouldn’t grow where these children lived.

A cloud of red dust rose behind the Baton Rouge, a junk car that had served me well. I jammed on the brakes, slid to a stop, jumped out and without knocking ran inside Chief’s house. He wasn’t there so I went through to the backyard and found him tending a fire. For a short spell I stood in the doorway and watched the old man. Something wasn’t right. I stepped outside and looked around. A voice in my head warned, Careful, Time-keeper, something’s wrong.

For starters, it seemed the old shaman had known about my coming before I got there. The fire was for me. I hadn’t written, called, or sent a smoke signal. He’d seen me from the spirit land and begun to prepare a ceremony. I would’ve turned around and left if I’d had a lick of sense. But I needed the power Chief had promised and had lots of experiences to share. But the old man wore a death face. As well as a doctor could read a medical chart, I read faces. He tried to hide his sad eyes from me. I knew the signs. Something had happened, but I didn’t know what. No hugs from him and he barely nodded his head to acknowl-edge my return from an important vision quest.

While Chief messed with the fire, bad feelings gnawed in the pit of my stomach, ran up my backbone to my hard head,

Timekeeper II2

knocked on the door to my brain and said, Timekeeper, brace yourself. You’ve got a bad one coming.

I trusted my instincts. They were stronger since I had jour-neyed to the Sacred Mountain. And I had my pride. To stand and wait for him like a little boy was embarrassing.

Got damn it. There ain’t nary a thing that can sneak up on me in the dark. Check dog taught me that. You can breathe fire if you want to, Chief. I can take whatever you’ve got. Bring it on.

Tough guy or not, Check dog was no longer there to look out for me. He got killed because I’d made a wrong turn. That’s life, one bad move and the rules change. Since Check’s death there were only two people I cared about, Morning Song and Chief. Before Chief came around, I’d drifted, looking here and there, and crossed things that weren’t worth a bunghole in a barrel. My beloved shaman, Chief, changed that. He gave me direc-tion. I took his lessons with eyes and ears of the night owl. His teachings had made me a better man, but now my nerves were frazzled. What’s the matter? Did I do something stupid?

The sick feeling in my stomach wouldn’t go away. I spoke to my friend. “What’s going on, Chief? Your neighbors hassling you because you’ve got a half-breed for a student?”

The old man poked at the fire and shifted stones about in the embers as though I hadn’t said a word. A long spell passed. “No talk, Timekeeper. Prayers first.”

“Sorry, Chief, I should have known that.”

Gee, I thought he could have at least said one hello. This time prayers are first. What more do I need, a message from God Almighty? Something’s up.

The stones were ready as they’d ever be. Still Chief messed with them, mumbling prayers. I knew the drill. He would pour water over the hot stones and make steam inside his sweat lodge to purify our bodies. To be courteous I should have left and come back at a better time. But I was afraid to say more while he prayed.

Chapter 1 3

I stood between two grape arbors. West beyond the sweat lodge were mesas about eighty miles away. I loved the flat top mountains. Oh, Jesus, I long to be on top of a mesa right now. I need to get my ass on down the road. Life’s bleak here and Chief is bothered.

The Baton Rouge was filled with gasoline and ready to roll. That was a comforting thought. I listened to a freight train labor its way East. It was a lonesome sound to know it would be in Virginia in three days. Glen Allen, that’s home, not Oklahoma. That’s where Morning Song is. Since I’d left, she’d worried her-self sick about me.

Oh, Jesus, I wish I could write her a note and say I’m fine. I’d tell her I’m not homesick so she would feel better. If she had a telephone, I would ask her to sing a song over the line. Then I would feel stronger instead of having a sick stomach. Her singing always makes me feel better. I would tell her about the things Chief taught. I’d say, “Mama I can’t be looking back to Glen Allen right now. I need to stay focused on the path ahead. Chief is steering me straight. I miss you, but I’m fine as frog hair.” Oh, Dear Jesus, she would know I was lying. I’m not fine and I could never lie to my mother.

High above I heard an eagle. I moved away so Chief couldn’t hear me speak. “Bird, tell Morning Song I’m doing fine. Please, do that and I’ll owe you one.”

But the bird wouldn’t help. He wouldn’t speak to my mother and tell her where I was. He said I had a dark spot, anger, on my heart that needed fixing. He wouldn’t be my messenger or friend. “Timekeeper, you need to rid your hatred before you can become a brother to the winged animals. Look out, Big Boy. Listen to what Chief is praying about. You’ve got a bad one coming, fool.”

The bird let out a sinister laugh, like when something bad is about to happen. He stopped teasing when Chief yelled across his fence and asked a neighbor next door, Nancy Two Shoes, to enter the sweat lodge. Nancy Two Shoes, in full Indian dress, creaked open the gate but wouldn’t look my way.

Timekeeper II4

Even she knows more about me than I know about myself. She sees into the ghost world. Damn, instead of being happy, I feel condemned.

Like a strong man, Nancy Two Shoes snatched up a leather firewood carrier and took the hot stones into the sweat lodge. Inside the tent she spoke in her mother tongue. When she came out, she whip-eyed me, checking out my white man’s features. The full bloods on the reservation didn’t like strangers, espe-cially the likes of me, a drifter not attached to the Way. From my white blood I had many Christian ways, and to no one did I hide my love for Jesus.

Chief turned and pointed at the tent. “Timekeeper, go yon-der.”

Anxious, I hurried into the sweat lodge and waited but he didn’t follow. Instead he stayed outside and prayed with Nancy Two Shoes. That was another bad sign.

My eyes adjusted to the darkness. I noticed a single small hole at the top of the dome. A perfect circle of light came through, revealing the pile of hot stones in the center of the dirt floor. Nancy Two Shoes would bring more rock later. Without the first drop of water poured over them, I was sweating. I removed my blue denim shirt and sat bare-chested. I rubbed the strange scars on my chest put there when I was three years old. How I had gotten them was a mystery to me. The smell of cowhide walls and tobacco from Chief’s peace pipe was strong. The holy pipe rested on a tiny scatter rug where he would sit.

What the hell is the hold up? I’m excited about my journey and he’s not up to listening. Maybe I should call the ceremony off.

There wasn’t time for that. Blinding sunlight flashed in my face when Chief flung open the flap and entered the sweat lodge. His movements were stiff, not fluid like mine. I was young and Chief was in his nineties.

Oh, my Lord, I hope I haven’t goofed up on my journey. Chief would know. He’s not happy.

Chapter 1 5

After lighting a storm lantern, Chief turned, pausing a sec-ond in the four sacred directions. Then he tossed a handful of flour at me to acknowledge the ceremony was in my behalf, took his seat on the rug, and used the language of my moth-er. Although I didn’t understand the tongue well, I loved the sounds, especially the singing. Times before he had spoken Eng-lish so I could follow. Why can’t he do that now? Hey, I’m no damn fool. He’s talking to the old one. They don’t want me around. Something is messed up. I can feel it. Timekeeper, look. His face is drawn in agony.

Chief pitched more flour and said another prayer. But he didn’t light the holy pipe, another bad sign. More prayers were said until I was ready to run out the tent. Finally he looked me in the eye and spoke. I thought I was ready for him but I wasn’t. His words changed my life forever. No young person should receive his death walk into the ghost world dreams, but that’s what happened to me.

“Chief, what is wrong? For the love of God, pray tell me!”

Chief’s eyes, stronger than an eagle’s stare, locked onto my frightened soul. “Timekeeper, ancient ones in outer land have counseled me. They gave bad news to my ears. I will give to you now. Morning Song is dead.”

Chapter 2

Not made of steel, I could hardly believe what I’d heard. Haven’t I had enough heartbreak? Even with the tent heated, my lips drew cold and my jaw locked shut. Phantom spirits rushed through the sweat lodge to haunt me. They stabbed at my body with sharp spears and a tingling sensation passed through my lungs like a summer squall. To live in a world without Morn-ing Song was unthinkable. She was my inspiration. My strength came from her. Without Mother, I feared my will for life would fade. I tried to gather myself, but failed. In front of Chief, my pride vanished and I cried like a child.

“Good to cry,” said Chief. “Wash wound of white eyes.”

While I cried a long spell, he sat upright, stiff as an oak. Nancy Two Shoes brought in more stones. I kept crying. She wasn’t supposed to stay but sat beside Chief without saying a word. Chief was a loving soul and a powerful Medicine Man. No matter how long the wait, the ceremony wouldn’t start until my tears had stopped.

“Chief, what happened?”

A holy man never sugarcoats anything to make his job eas-ier. “Timekeeper, Bugdaddy took life. Morning Song in wrong grave. You fix.”

“Chief, please tell me it isn’t so. Morning Song can’t be dead. She’s in a hellhole in Glen Allen, but not dead, got damn-it.”

Nancy Two Shoes didn’t like the way Chief dumped every-thing at once. His message was too much to take. How could he say such an awful thing? My mother was dead and buried in the wrong graveyard. But Nancy Two Shoes and I had to face life head on and the old shaman knew that. Chief didn’t change

Chapter 2 7

the message. He waved the peace pipe to begin the ceremony. “Morning Song. Wrong ground. Timekeeper, you fix.”

My thoughts turned to my father, the one person I hated. How could I get my hands on him? An old enemy that hid in the quiet places of my mind was ready to strike. With my anger unleashed, I could tear down the sweat lodge, kick and throw things in a mad fit to expel the hatred. But I was in the presence of a holy man, the only friend I had left in the world, the clos-est person to my mother. Chief was old and fragile, close to the spirit world, and I needed his help. Nancy Two Shoes slid beside me. She didn’t speak but made sure I felt her elbow in my side.

Chief waved the peace pipe and the ceremony began. As he performed a journey into the spirit land, I listened dazed and struggled to retain all that went on. After I puffed smoke, my mind flew back to Glen Allen with memories of Morning Song, the loving mother who’d held my nose as a newborn and blew the first breath into my lungs.

My life swirled inside me in an emotional uproar. Life was scary with things I didn’t understand. Not being able to read, no matter how hard I tried, I stayed frightened of the world of letters. School and home had let me down. I didn’t belong. Ghost land was the only place I could go and feel safe. Nancy Two Shoes’ elbow nudged me again to let me know she cared. That was good but I still fell apart. Chief delivered the toughest blow I had ever received.

Nancy Two Shoes left the tent and stood outside praying while the old shaman purified our bodies with water over hot stones. The air was hard to breathe. He motioned with the peace pipe to gather the things I would need to enter the spirit land. I reached for a drum that hung on the wall beside me. He waved pipe smoke, and I beat the drum and sang my broken heart song to Wakan Tanka, the Great Spirit. I’d learned to chant that song by the time I was five. Although I didn’t know what all the words meant, I cried them out by memory in my mother’s language. She had said we were thanking the Great Mystery for

Timekeeper II8

a safe journey over troubled hunting ground. Chief sang along and we entered the spirit world together. Then Chief had a vi-sion. He talked about my twisted path ahead. He said I must follow that path with a brave heart. “Timekeeper, do not fear.”

High above the sweat lodge the eagle cried, and Nancy Two Shoes rattled her tongue in my behalf. The eagle and Nancy Two Shoes could see the things Chief was witnessing in his vi-sion. A chill came over me. Right then I knew I had a rough road ahead.

Chapter 3

Morning Song could never rest in Glen Allen, Virginia. She must be with the People. After news came from the spirit world that Mama had died, I asked ghosts in the outer land to help free her soul from her grave. I couldn’t change her death, but I could help her find peace. I was driven to have her back but knew the only place that would happen was in ghost world dreams. We had had good days together. All things were possible. A dreamer, I came into this world with one foot on hard ground, the other deep into the great mystery. Often I left the hard ground world. Morning Song understood the odd child out of eight. Now that she was gone, I wanted to honor her life and remember what she expected from me. Her lessons had been filled with truth.

1948 Glen Allen, Virginia

Morning Song called me to her side. She wanted me to watch for birds. “Robbins tell when spring will come. Johnnyboy, go outside and watch.”

Mama did housework, washed clothes and cleaned other people’s houses. When she was home, I felt happy to be her lookout man, warning of trouble that came through the door with my father. Behind his back, I called him Bugdaddy. He had my siblings so frightened they obeyed his every command. I didn’t always act the way he wanted me to, but I went along with enough of his demands to keep him off my back—most of the time.

Morning Song was a teacher, a friend, not like any other

Timekeeper II10

mother in the world. She made me feel good about life and was more fun than even the whole world outdoors. “Mama, watch for birds outside with me. You need sunlight, too. My face is pale because of Bugdaddy’s bad blood. But I have your heart, right?”

Morning Song talked about spirits. She taught me how to visit that world, easy for a child of three. She wanted to know did I remember riding a silver bus out West, and did I remem-ber a lady named Round-woman. I couldn’t remember those things. She acted like that was good, that I didn’t need to know right then. That was confusing. Why had she asked? Mama did things like that all the time. She would ask about a hawk that was a mile away while we were still inside our house. I’d ask, “How can you see the hawk when we are standing here?” Morn-ing Song would smile and say I would learn soon enough. I wouldn’t stop begging until she gave in.

“I see with the eyes of an eagle. He soars high above our home. I am with him.”

“But, Mama, you are here with me.”

“Yes, but my spirit is in another place. You’ll go there some day.”

I wanted to go right then, but Mama said I was too young and needed to be patient. She said when I was older I would fly high in the sky and see the world with a different set of eyes. I didn’t understand that.

Morning Song could see into the ghost world. Wild birds would land in her hand. They would feed from Mama’s palm and not be the least bit afraid. She’d say, “You try it, Johnny-boy,” but the birds would fly away the minute I stepped for-ward. Morning Song explained she would teach me how to hold wild birds, but first I had to rid myself of anger and see through the eyes of the White Buffalo. That didn’t make sense. Then she said I had the marks of the White Buffalo on my chest. I thought about the White Buffalo. I could feel two scars close to one another and remembered I had picked at the scabs. I

Chapter 3 11

asked how I’d gotten the scars. She said I would learn that some day, but didn’t need to know at the time. No matter how much I begged to know about the scars, she would not give in. That left me with no way of knowing that one day the marks would change my life forever.

With blood running in two directions, white-skin and Indi-an, I was a mixed-up kid. At times I didn’t know what to think. I couldn’t reach into the spirit world the way Morning Song did. When I entered the dream world, Mama’s Ghost People treated me like an outsider, making me feel I didn’t belong. Why they treated me that way was a mystery. I hadn’t done anything to them. They should like me just because I was Morning Song’s favorite son and the only person in Glen Allen she trusted.

“Mama, why do the Spirit People shy away from me? I want to be their friend.”

They will be close to you one day she’d explained. She marked the time of that event on my blanket, but I could not see it. For now I was special to her and the rest could wait. I was headstrong and used to having my way. Waiting was oh so hard to do.

Like Morning Song, I could forecast the weather a day ahead. Mama taught me to read the signs. It was so simple I didn’t think twice about it. When I told what the weather would be Bugdaddy would say I was from the devil, not Christian like he was. He’d say I wasn’t his son, that the hospital gave him the wrong damn baby. Morning Song loved me so I didn’t care what he thought. I got what I needed from her and only curse words from him. He forced me to work with him in construction, but any chore Mama asked me to do became fun. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like that Mama spoke to me in her native tongue when he wasn’t around. There were lots of things he didn’t like that we kept secret for fear he would kill us. He hated the indig-enous Way that much.

Before I started school, Mama scraped a circle on the ground for a play area. The circle is the greatest design in the hearts of

Timekeeper II12

man, Morning Song said. But to me the circle was more than a design. It was a fun place to sing and dance, to play and dream about the outer world. I danced from point to point, the direc-tions on the compass. The ground talked to me until my feet got tired of the game. A child at play, I thought nothing odd about the earth talking to me. Mama didn’t either. She said that talking earth was a gift from God, the Great Mystery. That made my father furious. I learned early to keep my dreams a secret from everyone but Mama.

Morning Song called our spiritual nature the Thou. For her the circle on the ground was much more than a play area. It was the medicine wheel that showed the Thou lessons. She said all things have spirits, even the rocks I threw. I never doubted Mama. One day she said, “Johnnyboy, all things are alive in Thou.”

Like me, Mama used the wrong words sometimes. Her English was weak. She would say something from her moth-er tongue and be misunderstood. We might not have been in Texas, but we still lived in cowboy country. Folks in Glen Al-len, Virginia thought their way was for everyone. When Morn-ing Song spoke bad English, they took her meaning wrong and sometimes were offended. Once two white-steeple-church la-dies rushed me home because I used Mama’s Thou in Sunday school. They’d corner me when I used bad words I’d learned from my father. Filthy talk made them angry, but it was Mama’s Thou that shook the House of the Lord. I was never welcomed there again.

All that might have been avoided. I didn’t know the White Buffalo could have smoothed things over. I was too young to know about the scars on my chest.

Sin was a problem. Christians believed it was a sin to speak of trees, rocks and the sky as having spirits. I was five years old and didn’t know about blasphemy. Morning Song tried to ex-plain to the ladies what she had taught me, but she didn’t know the white man’s word for consciousness and used a wrong word.

Chapter 3 13

When she told them I was right, they got foot stomping furious for teaching me such sinful things. But Mama did me proud. She wouldn’t back down on where spirits were but did want to quiet the ladies. She searched her mind for a word, something that would calm down the two storefront mannequins who had sprung to life and were swarming like Bell hornets ready to sting. I’d seen mannequins before when Mama took me win-dow-shopping in town. At first I couldn’t figure out why the storefront dummies didn’t move, just stood frozen with stupid looks on their faces. Now here they were in front of us, alive, all dressed up in Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, demanding an-swers like we were past due on our grocery bills. Mama begged to explain her Johnnyboy’s faith. The word “faith” worked be-cause they stopped pointing at “the little heathen.” Still, when Mama asked what I had said, they wouldn’t repeat the words I’d learned from my father’s filthy mouth.

“Mama, let me throw stones at them. They don’t like us. They have a mean streak just like my shit-head daddy, got-damn-it.”

My rant didn’t help. Mama never changed her expression while the two ladies drew in breath. She tried to explain what she’d taught me with the medicine wheel, which was a mistake. The three women struggled and I yelled what was on my mind. “Holy buffalo shit, Mama! You done put fire ants in their draw-ers!”

The church ladies swelled like toad frogs and said we were going to hell. I thought going to hell might be more fun than going to their church where I had to sit as still as the stepping-stones to our outhouse. “Where’s the bus?” I tugged at Mama’s arm. “Let’s go. Any place is better than this shit hole.” I wanted to ask how much was a silver bus ticket to hell but figured that would stir up the hornets even more.

Mama crossed her lips with a finger and told me to hush my mouth. All I wanted to do was please Morning Song so I kept quiet while she tried to speak. But that wasn’t going to happen. The two ladies must have gotten their information about me

Timekeeper II14

from Bugdaddy. They wouldn’t stop preaching about how bad I was and how I would wind up in Hades. I’d never heard of Hades but figured, after living in Glen Allen, Hades might be an improvement. So I watched while Morning Song held them off with the same look she gave Bugdaddy when he got drunk and acted a fool.

The storefront mannequins finally left and I was glad of that. I had enough church to last me a long spell. Besides I wanted to buy candy with the nickel Mama scraped up each Sunday for me to put in the wooden toy church that was the Sunday school’s offering plate. We needed the money a lot more than the white-steeple-church people did. I was always hungry.

“Mama, you used the wrong words like Johnnyboy.”

Morning Song smiled, the kind of smile that moved Father Sky and the very clouds above. “No we didn’t, Johnnyboy. They did, ‘Hades’.”

“Mama, what is Hades?”

“A place you’ll never have to worry about.”

“Why?”

“Where we are from, there’s no such place. You’re my blood and you’re from the Dakotas. So, don’t worry.”

“Dakotas, where on earth is that?”

“You’ll learn soon enough. Now play outside. Watch for rob-ins.”

My big mouth had caused trouble in Sunday school. One hundred years could go by and Morning Song would still be trying to explain our spirituality to the two storefront ladies who would never hear a word of it. It was their way or to hell with us.

Morning Song believed all things are connected to one an-other, and each thing has a spirit. “It’s in the circle, Johnnyboy. It’s the Thou, the Great Web.” Mama talked about a conscious-ness with many levels, depending on where a soul stood in the great compass of life, the hermetical sealed tighter than a dog

Chapter 3 15

tick. The two ladies didn’t understand. Morning Song couldn’t find the right words so she used, perhaps by a slip of tongue, “the Great Spirit.” I understood. I saw with clear eyes what was going on because of Mama’s teaching me about the Web of Life.

What finally made the two ladies turkey-strut away was Ma-ma’s resolve, her stare into their confused minds. They couldn’t take Mama’s Medicine Power, her knowledge of truth. Nothing is more spiritual than Thou, the All. Morning Song said Jesus is the Son of God, Thou is All, the Great Web is a living universe expanding forever. All is the ground below and the sky above, the cosmos filled with living consciousness, each particle with a spirit. When a particle decomposes, it receives a new spirit and becomes something new. Godly knowledge comes through touch, which needs flesh. Touch is the strongest medicine. It is touch the ghosts in the spirit world want but can not have. Morning Song didn’t have the right English words to talk to church ladies, but she understood the Great Web and passed her knowledge onto me.

Mama’s teachings were supported by marks in the circle on the ground. In the medicine wheel, she hopped from arrow to arrow and spoke another language, explaining how the world began. Nothing could have impressed me more than her sing-ing and dancing the old songs. She taught me the sacred direc-tions, North, South, East and West, what they stood for, their colors and the spirit animal within each direction. The lessons were sacred, carried down from the old ones who had hunted animals great and small, cared for them and learned from the four-legged creatures how to keep the great Medicine Power churning and turning forever.

Mama’s teachings were simple enough for a child to under-stand. I remember them like this. The earth is the Mother, the sky, the Father. The Great Spirit, Earth Maker, God of all, lives in all things and can be found in the Sacred Directions, North, South, East and West. Our ancestors in the ghost world will help when we face obstacles along life’s pathways. There’s no money

involved, no blood letting or burnt offerings to pay. Mama said, “Johnnyboy, keep this knowledge in a stallion’s heart and don’t worry about going to hell.” Without fear, that’s what I did.

also by John Atkinson

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Timekeeperby John Atkinson

“Within the first few pages, John Atkinson’s TIMEKEEPER had weaved

its essence around my heart and refused to let me go. Written in the

same spirit as Sue Monk Kidd’s The Secret Life of Bees, TIMEKEEPER is a

magnificent tale of a young boy who can’t read, or at least he hasn’t

found the means to do so up to this point in his life. Misunderstood by

his teachers and elders, and physically beaten into the ground by his

father, Johnnyboy runs away from home at the age of fourteen and sets

off into the unknown to find himself. What he couldn’t find in his own

father, the universe provides for him in a multitude of miraculous ways.

In spite of all his suffering and adversities, Johnnyboy’s spirit remains

intact. . . better yet, like a boxer taking a relentless barrage of punches,

he spits his beating into the ringside pail and comes out dancing like

never before into the next rounds/chapters of this magnificent tale of

redemption. Readers, Booksellers, Journalists, Reviewers, Critics, and

even you Movie Makers, about all I can tell you is:

“Better get ready ’cause the TIMEKEEPER is coming to town!” —USA Today

“An important new coming of age novel: An important new author.”—WNBC.com & BloggingAuthors.com, by Grady Harp

“A deeply moving book and you will be the better for reading it.”—Sharon Baldacci, author, A Sundog Moment

“Written with a directness and depth that goes straight to the heart.”—Chesapeake Style, by Jean Keating

Available from your local bookseller and

directly from Fisher King Press:

TIMEKEEPER Hardcover – ISBN 978-0-9776076-5-5

To order your copy call 1-800-228-9316

International orders call +1-831-238-7799

www.fisherkingpress.com

Feasts of Phantoms isbn 978-0-9813939-2-6by Kehinde Ayeni Literary Fiction

Main Street Stories isbn 978-0-9813939-1-9by Phyllis LaPlante Literary Fiction

The R.R. Document isbn 978-0-9813939-0-2by J.G. Moos Literary Fiction

Requiem isbn 978-1-9267150-3-2by Erel Shalit Literary Fiction

Telling the Difference isbn 978-1-9267150-3-2by Paul Watsky Poetry

Adagio and Lamentation isbn 978-1-9267150-3-2by Naomi Ruth Lowinsky Poetry

Sulfur Creek isbn 978-0-9810344-8-5by Thad McAfee Literary Fiction

Timekeeper isbn 978-0-9776076-5-5by John Atkinson Literary Fiction

Dark Shadows Red Bayou isbn 978-0-9810344-7-8by John Atkinson Literary Fiction

Journey to the Heart isbn 978-0-9810344-3-0by Nora Caron Literary Fiction

The Malcolm Clay Trilogy by Mel Mathews Literary FictionLeRoi isbn 978-0-9776076-0-0Menopause Man isbn 978-0-9776076-1-7SamSara isbn 978-0-9776076-2-4

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In Canada & the U.S. call 1-800-228-9316International call +1-831-238-7799

www.fisherkingpress.com

Timekeeper II142

“Timekeeper II is a rare treat, a window that opens and re-opens into a dreamer’s world where events and personages from the world of form and the world of spirit mix and interact and sometimes contradict each other. Neither Chief nor the illusive and powerful Round Woman will give Timekeeper clear and definitive answers. Instead, he must take on the role of a shaman and enter the ghost world . . .

“Once again, John Atkinson has conjured up a gritty, highly original story where reality turns in upon itself and carries both his protagonist and his readers through the fires of transformation into a world where all con-flicts disappear. Highly recommended for all adventurous readers.”

—Literary Aficionado, Malcolm R. Campbell, author of The Sun Singer and Garden of Heaven

“Timekeeper’s ability to seek information through dreams and visions breaks the bounds of traditional storytelling and brings the reader across nearly a century of U.S. history as it relates to the mistreatment of Native Americans by the military and the local townsfolk. Johnnyboy’s struggle to find common ground between the traditional beliefs of his mother and the Christianity of his father’s people provides a lesson for us all.

“Readers interested in Native American (specifically Sioux) ceremonies such as sweat lodge and sun dance will find the narrative particularly appealing, as will students of shamanism.

“Atkinson’s prose is in fine form, with plenty more of his colorful expressions, like “worshippers spread out in pews like crushed red pepper on barbequed ribs,” that make his writing such a delight to read.”

—New Mystics, Joey Madia author of Jester-Knight

John Atkinson is the author of the mystery thriller Dark Shadows Red Bayou, Mercy Me, and the renowned Timekeeper, a novel/quasi-mem-oir about a young man who can’t read and his quest for self-discovery and a place at the table of life.

Fiction

To order books call toll free in Canada and the U.S.

1-800-228-9316

www.fisherkingpress.com