The Warrior From Siata: End of Days

By Ken Bastian

This time Shaelene Willoughby is called upon to go back in time, rather than doing it by accident. The villages she’d come to think of as home in her former adventure are now under the rule of the cruel Aunu’u, and in need of rescue. Sina, her mentor as a warrior last time, teams up with her in a daring attempt to save the villages. But will it be enough to stop an even greater threat, or will she witness the end of days for her beloved people?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jun 3, 2024
• ISBN: 9781665759649

Ken Bastian

As a young man the author spent three years in Samoa, where he became fascinated with the evidence suggesting that the islands were once part of a larger landmass. He also studied the legends, and after years of research came to realize that at least some of them could be based on reality. This book, and the first in the series “The Warrior From Siata”, are action-packed stories set in ancient Polynesia, the lands and people he came to love. Although the culture he writes about is long gone, his stories and characters will keep them alive for years to come.

Book preview

Copyright © 2024 Ken Bastian.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Archway Publishing

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

844-669-3957

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-5963-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-5964-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2024909026

Archway Publishing rev. date: 5/13/2024

CONTENTS

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to Celeste Graham, who encouraged me throughout the process and gave invaluable input; to Larry Rednour, whose advice and friendship inspired me to write The Warrior From Siata, the first book in this series; and all the friends and family who kept me on track throughout the process.

PROLOGUE

Shaelene Willoughby makes the incredible claim to have traveled back twenty two thousand years in time, where she became a warrior goddess. It’s an unprecedented attempt by a young archeologist to garner fame and attention that is both shameful and ridiculous. She gives a proud profession a bad name.

There were other articles even more scathing about her after a distorted version of her amazing adventure got released. She declined requests by the press for interviews, preferring to stay silent on the matter. What had happened was an accident, nothing she’d planned or wished for, and despite the legends that had been passed down from generation to generation, she knew she was no goddess. She was just a woman who had been given an experience she cherished, and kept to herself.

But it had happened. She had been sent back in time, had been taught the use of the spear, the tupa, and with it had faced cannibals and prehistoric beasts, had come face to face with giants and what the ancients called gods. But she hadn’t done it alone. She had been part of a caste of warriors, women who defended their village in a time when women dominated, and with them had fought, and watched some of them die.

It wasn’t a hallucination or dream, and she had proof. Apu, a man born twenty two thousand years ago, had come through time to be her husband, the father of her daughter. She still had the beautiful spear that had at times been drenched in the blood of enemies, made for her by those gods. It was an amazing part of her life, shared with people she’d come to love in a prehistoric world she called home, but it wasn’t a story she chose to share. The skeptics could say all they wanted, the world could judge her as it would, but she knew the truth, and kept it stored silently in her heart.

CHAPTER 1

T HE SOUND OF waves on an unseen shore gave hope to the bedraggled woman, clutching the child she vowed to protect with her life. They were clinging to a plank torn from their ship, the burning remains of which were far behind them now, a yellow/orange glow on the horizon. Ahead was a shoreline, a shadow darker than the black sky above. If it was a soft beach they had hope. If a rocky cliff they would die.

A streak of lightning bolted for a fraction of a second - a stretch of sandy beach seen ahead with huge rocks nearby. Now it was a matter of hitting the sand rather than the rocks. Utamasi, no stranger to the ocean’s threats, began paddling frantically with one hand, guiding the plank to where she thought the beach would be. Her life, and more importantly, the life of the princess, depended on it.

The sound of surf grew. They were being pushed closer to - what? Rocks that would kill them, or sand that would save them? The plank rose and fell over rising swells, and then there was a sudden chunk as the plank hit something solid, followed by a scream of agony from Utamasi as a wooden wedge tore into her stomach. The young girl clung to the plank for dear life, unable to do anything for her mentor. The plank swung sideways onto a smooth, sandy shoreline.

Utamasi, knowing her injury was killing her, painfully helped the twelve year-old girl to crawl onto the sand. They were safe from the ocean, but Utamasi was fading fast. Knowing death was coming, her body shredded by a sliver the size of her fist, she took the girl by the shoulder and spoke urgently.

Go into the mountain she managed to moan. Hide in the forests, for I have taught you how to survive there. Find a family or village that can safely take you in, but be careful. The enemy is all around.

62251.jpg

Sina dashed into the tent with the energy only a five year old can have in desert heat, jumped on my back and shouted into my ear. Trudy wants you, mommy. I turned, pulled her to my lap and gave her a hug. There was dirt on her pullover shirt and knees of her coveralls. She’d been a busy little girl, and it wasn’t yet nine in the morning.

She does, does she? I cooed. What does she want?

I don’t know she chuckled, tickling my chin with a tiny finger. She just said come quick ‘cause it’s important.

Oh, it’s important? Then we’d better go see what she wants. Where’s your father?

I am here Apu said, poking his head through the flap. He was wearing levis, boots and a short-sleeved tee.

What does she want?

She say hurry.

English isn’t easy for some people, and Apu was still struggling with it. Sina, raised with both English and ancient Samoan spoken around the house, was fluent in both. I put a rock on the printouts I’d been studying, eased Sina to her feet. Let’s find out what she wants.

The dig site was two hundred yards above camp. Hopewell arrow heads of grey obsidian had been found there, along with a spearhead. Hopewell points are dated to nineteen hundred years ago, early for the native population of southwest Idaho. That’s what made this dig worth a small grant, my first since the ill-fated Samoan episode, so I didn’t intend to blow it. The university wanted to find evidence of pre-Columbian Indians in Idaho, and I was going to give it to them.

We were looking for signs of a tribal camp site. Since the points predated Columbus by four hundred years, we were on target for our mission. The flat was small, which meant the camp would be small. The hills dropping on both sides were too steep for habitation, but hunter/gatherer sites would be small. Hunting cultures, especially in desert regions, couldn’t feed as many people as farming cultures, which allowed for larger tribes.

Watch for snakes I reminded Sina as we made our way up the hill, knowing it would send a chill down Apu’s spine. He had a deep, unnatural fear of snakes, and the area we were in was the natural habitat for rattlesnakes and blow snakes.

I am, mommy she threw back, winding her way carelessly over the rocks and sage and rabbit bush that littered the hillside. It was steep, but not difficult. The desert heat made it worse.

There were agrarian cultures in South and Central America before Columbus, but not in the deserts of Southwest Idaho, with its severe winters and hot, arid summers. Pre-Columbian cultures here were hunters, but how long had they been here? A hundred miles to the east the remains of a teenage girl had been found and dated at twelve thousand years. A few hundred miles west the remains of a man with a spear had been found, dated at six thousand years.

My team consisted of four volunteers, three working for credits. The fourth was a poly sci major who wanted to be with her boyfriend. That was Trudy, the girlfriend of Josh, one of two archeology students. The other was Eduardo. Tim was a geology major. All of them with the exception of Josh were freshmen at Boise State University, where I’d landed a job as a professor despite my seemingly questionable past. Josh was a sophomore.

Over here, Professor Trudy shouted as we crested the hill. She was above the flat, standing next to a sagebrush stand. You’ve gotta see this. Josh, Tim and Eduardo were all with her. We made our way up the slope to where they were, Sina using a small stick to beat on every twig or grass stem. It looks like a foot she cried as I arrived.

And that’s what it was. An intact human foot, exposed at the roots of the sage. It appeared to be fossilized, the same grey as the strata it was in, below a reddish layer of volcanic ash. That’s not just pre-Columbian Josh exclaimed, grinning broadly. That’s prehistoric. Look at the strata.

Don’t jump to conclusions I warned him. The fact that it’s in a prehistoric strata doesn’t mean the person lived then.

But it was fossilized in that strata.

That still doesn’t mean the person lived then. We bury our dead six feet deep, right?

So?

Depending on the area, that depth might be a hundred, a thousand, or a million years old, but the person didn’t actually live then. We have to look for signs of artificial intrusion.

What does that mean? Trudy asked, and Josh answered for me.

It means looking for signs that it was buried in an older strata than the one it lived in he said.

When we dig a grave I added, we dig through layers of strata and pile the dirt, then replace it over the coffin, jumbling those layers. The layers of dirt directly over the coffin won’t match the layers to the side, which shows that the body was artificially intruded. That’s what we have to look for.

If there’s no evidence of artificial intrusion Josh asked, how old do you think this is?

It’ll take lots of research to determine that I said, shaking my head. It’s below that red strata, so it would definitely be old. Just how old is anyone’s guess.

What’s the red stuff? Trudy asked.

Sulfur in volcanic ash. But it isn’t just piled up ash. It’s the result of ash in water. Remember the fish fossils we found? Those are carp fossils. Sea carp. It’s from a time when salt water covered the area, an inundation or flood. Maybe it’s from Lake Bonneville, maybe a time when this area was sea floor.

Lake Bonneville? Trudy again.

That’s a lake that broke free of its shoreline twenty eight thousand years ago Josh explained, proud of his knowledge.

It was a sea rather than a lake I added. The Great Salt Lake is what’s left of it, but at one time it was huge, covering much of Utah and Nevada. Maybe a volcano caused it to break its banks, creating the Snake River gorge. That would explain the sulfur, but see how that strata seems to rise and fall along the hills? These hills have been shaken up since that strata was formed. It rises in places, but it’s always four to six inches deep. If it was a flood, it was a big one.

What’s that smoke? Tim asked, pointing toward a plume to the south. I shrugged, not really interested, started giving instructions as to how they should excavate this fossil. The dig would start several feet from the fossils and work inward, revealing any alterations in the strata. Every ounce of dirt would be screened for other fossils, and each strata revealed would be carefully recorded and photographed to verify whether artificial intrusion was involved.

There’s more smoke now, professor. It might be a range fire.

I looked up in alarm. A range fire would be devastating. It could destroy our camp and interfere with our work, and destroy the winter feeding ground for a lot of wild game. Deer, antelope, mountain goats, wild horses, coyotes, and varmints needed this land to survive the winter. Their range was already encroached by the invasion of farms and subdivisions that were cropping up all over the place. I’d better check it out I sighed. Keep working till I tell you otherwise. If it comes this way we’ll have time to evacuate. In the meantime, focus on this. It’s what we’re looking for, so be careful.

I go too Apu said, looking worried. In my world men protected women, and he’d gladly assumed that role. I smiled gratefully, but shook my head.

No, you stay here and take care of Sina. I won’t be gone long. Apu was a great father and husband, a man to be proud of and I loved him with all my heart, but there was something about that smoke that was telling me something. I didn’t understand it, but the feeling was strong that I should go alone.

I got the keys to the Cherokee and started it for the first time in several days, let it warm up for a moment and drove down to the junction below. I turned left toward the canyon the smoke was coming from. It was a quarter mile to the mouth of that canyon, but there the road ended. I parked, got out and started hiking, climbing over rocks and washouts from the spring runoff. Two hundred yards up I came into a flat, and found the fire.

It was in a wide flat, with a woman feeding green sage to the flames. That was causing the smoke. I thought she was Hispanic, but as I drew nearer I saw otherwise. My heart raced with excitement when I got a look at her clothes. She was dressed in a wraparound skirt with a smock of sorts covering her top, the style of clothing I’d seen before. Not in modern times, but very ancient ones.

Greetings, Salini of Siata she called out in a language that was dear to me.

Greetings, sister I responded in her