Spirit Quest
Chapter 1

Caution: This Time Travel Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, mt/ft, Ma/ft, mt/Fa, Fa/Fa, ft/ft, Fa/ft, Mult, Consensual, Reluctant, Slavery, Fiction, Time Travel, Incest, Polygamy/Polyamory, First, Oral Sex,

Desc: Time Travel Sex Story: Chapter 1 - 16-year-old David Whitehorse suddenly finds himself transported more than 1500 years into the past. This is the story of how his parents prepared him and of his life back then: how he used his considerable knowledge and skills, and how he finally came to understand why he ended up back then.

My name is David Whitehorse and I’m 16. I’m practically a full-blooded Blackfoot Indian. My great grandfather was from Germany, so Gramps was half Blackfoot. Mom is only three-quarters Blackfoot, but all my other ancestors are full-blooded Blackfoot.

According to my parents, when they first started dating, Dad’s easy-going, happy-go-lucky personality and boyish charm attracted Mom; Mom’s looks attracted Dad. By the time she saw past the charm, she had to marry him anyway as I was on the way.

Right after they got married, Dad was likely to be found drinking or playing pool in one of the town’s bars, burning any free time he had. At least he thought it was free time; my mother was of a different opinion. Then Dad was arrested for a drunken brawl in a bar he frequented, and for assaulting and injuring one of the cops who tried to break it up. The judge gave him an option--the Marine Corps for four years or county jail for five to seven years. Dad chose the Marines.

Like most, my father returned from war a changed man. Born three months after Dad joined the Marines, I was too young to remember much about his return. I base that observation on the accounts given me by my parents. When Dad returned home, he said that the Marines were the best thing that ever happened to him--aside from meeting and marrying Mom. From that day forward, Dad never drank, and was a devoted husband and father.

The only thing my parents argued about after Dad’s return was when he started teaching me about weapons before I was five and about how hard he pushed me to learn. The arguments stopped almost immediately, and Mom’s last letter to me explained why; she decided that either her husband was crazy or I would need to know everything Dad taught me--and more. The comments the tribal elders made to her and their sudden insistence on helping to support our family (so both parents could help teach me) finally pushed her to accept that, however unlikely, Dad’s far-fetched belief had merit.

Having grown up on the reservation, Dad learned from his father and grandfather the old ways, those passed down from generation to generation. He took me hunting or fishing at least twice a week and taught me everything he knew. Others from the tribe helped teach me things Dad didn’t know, augmenting what Dad taught me. I learned to harvest and weave fiber from various plants, making it into cord to make snares and fishing nets. I learned how to make and hunt with snares, then bows, and finally with rifles. I learned to track and to survive in the wilderness--even in the snow. Aside from hunting, fishing, and tracking, I learned mountaineering, rock climbing, snow skiing, general survival skills, desert survival, winter survival, advanced first aid, and swimming.

Each summer Dad and I spent two weeks in the woods living off the land. When I turned ten, except for metal tools and implements, all Dad allowed me to take with me were items I made myself, including the bows I made. While I didn’t have to weave the cloth, I did have to cut out and hand-stitch the clothing I wore. Eventually, I made clothing and moccasins from the skin of a deer I killed, and quickly grew comfortable wearing buckskins.

Additionally, my father started me in a martial arts class at age five. I ate it all up; what young boy wouldn’t? My friends were all jealous of me; I was living every young boy’s fantasy life. However, my life wasn’t all work and learning. If I was at home, my parents insisted that I go outside to play for an hour each afternoon when the other kids got home from school. When I was younger, we played younger games like tag and hide-and-go-seek. As I got older, we played baseball, soccer, football, and basketball.

My friends were quite interested in what I was learning, so once or twice a month I showed them. Dad and I would spar, or Dad would supervise while I did a kata with my bokuto (wooden practice sword) or even my katana when I was older. They loved watching me use my bow. When I was twelve, they oohed and aahed when I hit targets more than a hundred yards away.

My martial arts skills grew rapidly since Dad drilled me and then sparred with me every evening when I became proficient enough. My instructor was amazed at my progress. By age eight, I frequently won area and regional contests in my age group. By age ten, I won my first state championship. At thirteen, I took third place in my age bracket at the national tournament, and won it the next two years. By then I had quite a large collection of weapons, most fashioned by my own hand.

The only things I didn’t make myself were my katana and wakizashi, a matching tanto, and a sai. Dad gave them to me for my eighth birthday. Dad never gave many details, but said that he bought them from someone he met while he was on R&R in Japan. He also bought a similar, unsharpened set, and a bokuto.

For years the daisho sat reverently on a small stand in the living room, tips of the blades always pointed to our right as we looked at it. Dad didn’t know why, it was just the way the man who forged the sword told him it was supposed to be done. He complied out of respect for the master sword maker who made and sold him the weapons. Once Dad gave it to me, the daisho rested in my bedroom atop a special cherry wood stand. I fashioned that stand under the watchful eye of, and with a great deal of assistance from, one of Dad’s friends who built furniture.

Dad gave me the wooden practice sword for my seventh birthday and I didn’t let it out of my sight for a month; I even slept with it, much to the chagrin and amusement of my parents. I also gained a second martial arts instructor to learn iaijutsu, the art of drawing the sword with a slicing attack.

So how did I have time to do all of this and go to school? I was home schooled. Most home schooled children learn at a much faster rate than their peers do. The kids who don’t want to be in school don’t slow down home-schooled kids with their disruptions. Studies show that an average student learns the equivalent of ten minutes for every hour they spend in school, with lessons geared so even the worst students can learn them.

People learn much faster when they’re interested in something. Over the course of several years, every kid will be interested in virtually everything you would need to learn in school and will want to learn about it. I easily passed the high school equivalency test at age fourteen, right before my friends started high school. When the school district blustered that I needed PE credits, Mom drove her car down to their offices with the back seat filled with literally dozens of my trophies--including my National Championship trophy. I think that using my bokuto and going through the forms, and then sparring with my sensei convinced them I was definitely physically fit. I’m sure that the jumps, flips, and other aerial moves I did during our sparring demonstration helped, as did managing to make them look effortless, even after fifteen minutes of rigorous sparring.

After passing the high school equivalency test, a test showing that I had already mastered what I would be expected to learn in high school, I stayed for a year with Dean and Tina, two of Mother’s friends from college. They lived and worked in a re-creation of an early colonial town where he was a blacksmith and she hand-made both tallow and beeswax candles. Everyone there was friendly and loved that I was interested in their craft. I learned the basics of glassblowing, pottery making, brickmaking, masonry, and working wood with medieval hand tools. I even learned barrel making from the cooper. Many days, I helped demonstrate for the tourists various skills that I had learned.

Aside from learning the basics of those skills, I worked with Dean in his smithy where, with lots of help from Dean, I made my own sets of medieval hand tools, throwing knives, and two dozen spike shuriken of varying lengths and weights. In the evening, if I wasn’t still learning a new blacksmithing technique or making iron or steel implements, I took college courses online, continuing my education. I also finished one of the thirteen chapters in “The Art of War” every week from age ten until I “left” at age sixteen. By then, I could recite much of it verbatim.

At home, my assigned chore was planning, plowing, planting, maintaining, and harvesting our large family garden every year--at least while I was at home. Mom took care of it when Dad and I were hunting. Aside from the usual vegetables, we had a small orchard with dozens of different fruit trees, a berry patch with all the usual suspects, and even a cluster of sugar cane in a small greenhouse. There was but a handful of common crops that I didn’t successfully grow at least once. Mom dried, canned, traded, or sold what we didn’t eat right out of the garden.

Each year beginning at age eight I made a recurve composite bow almost the same way the Mongols did. I started the first one with a hand-carved piece of green birch wood. The two things I did differently from the Mongols was to carve one side of the bow down to the heartwood, making sure the heartwood faced me when I used the bow. Then, I bent it into shape in a frame where I left it to dry. The other thing I did differently was to use hickory. In my research, I discovered that hickory was a better wood than the birch used by the Mongols.

Unfortunately for the Mongols, hickory was a western hemisphere wood. Rather than require me to hunt and kill a bighorn sheep, Dad bought the horns of a bighorn sheep from a hunter willing to sell them. I cut, filed, and scraped a slice of the horn until it fit the belly of my bow perfectly. When the rest of the bow was ready, I boiled the slice of horn until it softened, and glued it to the belly of the bow.

I made the glue I used from the air bladders of fresh water fish we caught, soaking the bladders in hot water, and then boiling them down until only sticky glue remained. What glue I didn’t use hardened into a cake I could reheat and use later.

I dried the sinew from tendons of both the farm animals and the game animals we butchered and ate, along with sinew donated by friends who knew I used it. Once it dried, I crushed the sinew into loose, cotton-like fibers and glued the fibers lengthwise along the spine of the bow, the side opposite where I glued the slice of horn. Then, I glued a cover of boiled birch bark over the bow, wrapped it tightly in cotton cording, and put it back into the frame to dry.

Since I grew a bit taller each year, I made a new bow every year. Each new bow was slightly longer than the previous year to keep up with my personal growth. I kept the smaller bows and learned to use one from horseback. Each year, after assessing the smaller bows and choosing one I was comfortable with, I donated any that were too small to a friend since most of them had developed an interest in using a bow. Several of my friends have made their own bow alongside me when I made mine.

Mongol bows are much shorter than the English longbow. The Mongols fought from horseback whenever possible and a longbow wasn’t practical on horseback. Both bows have a hefty draw weight. Making a longbow version of the Mongol bow required a marked increase in my upper-body strength. Other tribal members who tried to draw the bow were barely able to draw it, much less draw it completely.

The larger bow is now six and a half feet long, and I can only use it standing. It has one hell of a draw weight but I now have a range of just over six hundred yards. As much as I practice, I’m deadly accurate at four hundred yards, easily able to hit a rabbit if it isn’t moving. A moving target is harder to hit since I have to estimate correctly the speed and direction of the target. Over the years, I’ve hit two of four deer I tried to hit that way, the other two ran an erratic course and my arrow never got close to them.


Then, one warm August morning of my sixteenth year, the reason for all the preparation finally became apparent. I had a major tournament that morning in a city about fifty miles away. It was a clear morning with no clouds in sight; the moon and stars were visible; the temperature was expected to be in the mid-90s (34-36 degrees C) by mid-afternoon. My bag of gear and clothes for after the tournament were packed and loaded in the car when Mom and Dad told me they were staying home today. I was disappointed since one or both of them had been to every tournament with me.

I was stunned to find the elders waiting outside for us in the early morning darkness. “In times past, our boys went on a spirit quest when they were old enough. When they returned, we considered them a man. Today begins your spirit quest; today you start down the road to becoming a man,” the Chief said solemnly.

I thanked them, not really sure what the Chief meant. I hardly felt as if driving myself to a tournament qualified as a Spirit Quest. I hugged my parents; both had tears in their eyes as I left, almost as if driving alone to a tournament was a watershed event. After we finished hugging, Dad said emotionally, “Today, you are taking your first step on your journey to becoming a man, I’m proud of you.” I still didn’t think it was that big a deal, especially not big enough to have the elders there to see me off to my tournament.

Half an hour later, just as the first hint of dawn colored the eastern sky, a pickup trying to evade the police was coming towards me. Just before it reached me, it blew a tire. The last thing I saw was the truck flipping and heading right for me...

My thanks to my editors, Thornefoote, bigbillh, Erik Thread, Gordon Johnson, and Lonelydad for their sharp eyes, words of encouragement, as well as necessary criticism, corrections, and reality checks that I hope made this a better story.

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