(…)

It wasn’t just that I actually traveled to the past. That wasn’t so hard, as long as you’re determined not to mess with history. But the fact that the Anuir took me in… Now, that blows my mind. Me, a hopeless Korean academic, already middle-aged when I made the time leap half a lifetime ago. How an aggressive East African tribe at the dawn of the thirtieth millennium BCE took pity on me is… well, mind-boggling. I obviously was no threat, that surely helped.

(…)

History is a bitch. Or, as I like to imagine her, a dominatrix. It’s not that she doesn’t allow us timers to toy with her. Oh, she does, very much so. Here I am, a full-fledged Anuir now, aren’t I? But beware—be too hasty in your historical tinkering, or too violent, and she won’t have it. Going back to kill Hitler—or Fleming? Forget it. Sabotaging the invention of gunpowder—or the printing press? Forget it. That’s why the audacious soldier types don’t even make the cut for the timer program. Time travel won’t even trigger, but the device will happily guzzle up all those precious terajoules all the same. No, it’s got to be people like me—people who understand, who respect her and caress her chaotic body with silk gloves— because a gentle nudge here or there is all we can afford if we hope to have a shot at saving humankind’s future.

In my case, I suppose I was lucky to be sent so far back—so deep into our species’ past. I guess History is a shortsighted dominatrix—the further back we go, the more she tolerates our presence. Or maybe it’s just that our meddling dissolves over time, like ripples fading on a large pond—leaving nothing we can do to change your fate, whoever you are, bent over in your claustrophobic timer refuge, reading this report. I hope not, because that’s hopeless. And hope is all you’ve probably have left. Hope for a future that isn’t fucked up beyond belief. Hope that, one day, one of our timers will make a breakthrough and save us from ourselves. How many timers like me have we already sent on their one-way trips into the guts of history? Hundreds, surely. And yet, none has ever…

No, I can’t let that spiral of despair begin its deadly spin. I was trained to resist it, and I was the best in my timer cohort.

(…)

God—or Shwaba, the Moon Goddess—bless the Anuir. Because as a scout—my primary low-meddling mission to gather intel on the far past—my chances of survival were, well, ridiculous. I would’ve been lucky to last a week and leave behind a half-baked report of my scant observations in the time box. But somebody’s gotta do it. And, well, since you dug up these documents and are reading these lines, it’s clear I’ve more than fulfilled my original mission. You’ll find my initial report at the bottom of the pile, though obviously outdated by the later ones. Now that I’m one of the Anuir, it’s not hard to sneak out in the middle of the night every few years to add a few more pages. I hope it helps.

For your sake.

(…)

Believe it or not, leaving tech behind forever wasn’t all that difficult. Although I do miss my good old trusty Swiss knife. Try opening the belly of a gazelle with a sharp rock—no matter how skilled Akhul is with her stone crafting. The way she smiles when she hands me her latest fist ax… The way she meets my gaze… The longing… The hunger I can never yield to… Yeah, there are far heavier burdens for a lonely timer to bear than simply giving up technology.

(…)

If it’s a miracle that I survived, it’s no less a miracle that the Anuir did too.

The valleys are claimed by a maze of warring tribes—each entangled in an inscrutable web of shaky alliances and ancestral hatreds. This is a warzone, not the idyllic hunter-gatherer paradise that historian asshole promised (if Timothy Carpenter happens to read this, j/k).

Knowing what I know now, I still wonder what the Anuir must have thought when they first found me—an unconscious, dehydrated stranger under a ragged sheet of roughly cut grasses. I wonder what kept them from stabbing me on the spot, as I’ve seen them do to other strangers myself. Perhaps it was the way I looked. Not many East Asians in the neighborhood, that’s for sure. To their credit, the Anuir are among the most curious of the Peoples. Curiosity might have killed the cat, but it sure saved this Korean man.

You see, Xenophobia is a way of life here. It doesn’t guarantee survival—what does?—but I must admit that when the entire land is contested by an ever-shifting coalition of ultra-competitive, predatory tribes, it certainly goes a long way. 

(…)

Of course I couldn’t invent anything, no matter how advantageous it would have been for the Anuir. That would have caused too much of a chronodistortion, and I can always feel the gaze of that bitch, History, on the back of my neck. And my hunting-gathering skills? To be blunt, they’re pathetic. Though I did improve over time. What I’m trying to say here is that we, surviving timers, are pretty much condemned to be useless to our people. But I resisted that destiny—within limits. I always volunteered for the more, shall we say, unpleasant tasks—like opening game guts with crudely sharpened rocks.

Or taking care of the kids.

And, boy, did that bring some unexpected consequences. I feel guilty now, but if you’re reading this, I guess it wasn’t such a big deal. I really hope somebody is reading this…

Where to begin? Perhaps with that early night when the kids were particularly unruly, and Hakram exiled them all away to the far inner edge of the encampment. The poor lads sat in silence with their backs against the ivy-covered cliff, looking at us adults with sullen, hurt eyes. Of course, I took pity on them. I love them to pieces. I brought some firewood and started a bonfire around which they quickly gathered between giggles and expectant gazes. Because they knew what was coming.

A story.

But not that night. No. Shwaba forgive me, but I was tired of repeating the same old semi-mythical stories of the Anuir and the Peoples over and over again. That night, I had a surprise for them. I pulled out a six-sided die, perfectly crafted by Akhul, though I had carved the dots myself.

“What’s that?” little Arul asked, scrutinizing the geometric perfection of the object. The others stared, equally fascinated.

I handed it to her. “Roll it.”

“What?”

“Throw it on the ground. Make it roll like a dry bush in the wind.”

It took a while, but after a few minutes, they were all loudly trying to outdo each other with the number of dots that came up.

It was time. “Now we’re playing a game,” I said.

The kids cheered so loudly it drew some annoyed glances from the adults.

“I’ll go first!” Arul quickly volunteered. “What do I do?” She eagerly took the die in her hands.

“It’s not a competition. This is a very special game. You help each other out, and you don’t play to win.”

I laughed at their puzzled looks.

“In this game,” I continued, “you pretend you’re somebody else. How about a hero? I’ll tell you a heroic story and…”

“Yes!” they cheered.

“No. Not like that. I’ll just describe the situation and then you… You know what? Let me demonstrate. Arul, you’re a warrior.”

“What?”

“A warrior. A strong warrior, like Akhul. What’s your name?”

“Uh, Arul?’

“No, I mean in the game.”

She blinked at me in baffled silence.

“Wow, tough crowd. Imagine you’re in a dream, alright?”

She nodded.

“I’m going to tell you how the dream begins: You’re grown up. And strong. And walking through the forest of a distant valley, carrying a sharp wazo in your hand. Can you picture that?” I leaned in, nodding encouragingly.

She nodded back.

“But!” I sharply added, to the satisfying shudder of Arul and her peers. “Roll the die!”

She did. “Four dots,” she counted and raised her large eyes at me.

“Good enough! You notice something hiding behind a particularly large peryul tree.”

“What?” She leaned in.

“You can’t tell. It’s well hidden. Whatever it is, it’s big—it casts a large shadow. You’re an experienced hunter, and you think it’s trying to stay out of sight from you. What do you do?”

“Uh, I—I’m listening to your story.”

“No, I mean in the story. What do you do in your imagination?”

“Uh…” Her brow furrowed for an instant. “You’re the one telling the story.”

“Not this time. I want you to tell me what happens next—like in a dream. What would you do if you were dreaming this?”

“Hmm… I think I’ be scared and run away.”

“No. Yes! Of course you’d do that, and that would be wise in real life. But in this story we’re telling together, you are not you. You’re not Arul. You’re a strong warrior. What would a strong warrior do? Imagine you’re in the dream of the warrior. Would a warrior—a hero—flee in panic?”

She shook her head.

I said, “I think a warrior might yell something like ‘Come out, whoever you are!’” I met each of their gazes in turn. “Or maybe the warrior would pick up a rock and throw it at the tree to scare whatever’s hiding into showing itself. Or, if you’re a very brave warrior, you might raise your wazo and charge.”

“In my dream…” she began, glancing at her peers. They nodded back at her in encouragement. “In my dream, I would charge!”

“Good! You charge forward! The hiding creature realizes you’ve spotted it, and as you pick up speed, your wazo gripped firmly in your hand, it emerges from behind the tree. And this creature is massive! Its chest nearly as thick as the peryul!”

She gasped, eyes wide. “What is it?”

“It’s an Orc!”

She frowned. “A what?” The others exchanged baffled glances.

“A… A monster. Like a person—a man—but not one of the Peoples. He’s huge—with tusks jutting out of his lower jaw and muscles twice the size of Akhul’s. His skin is dirty green. And he’s carrying a wazo too—but it’s twice as long as yours. He roars at you in defiance! You think this is the monster that’s been capturing little Peoples’ kids all season. You’ve finally found it! Do you keep charging forward? He’s grinning at you with hate in its eyes!”

She blinked and swallowed.

“You’re a hero. What do you do?”

She turned hesitantly to her peers.

They nodded back at her. “Do it!” Orwu said. He’d always been a quick study.

“It’s your dream, Arul!” I grinned at her, wide-eyed. “What do you do?”

 “I—I attack with my wazo!”

“Roll the die!” I shouted. “A six! Wow, impressive! You hit the monster, and it goes down whining in pain!”

All the kids stood and cheered. Arul laughed in delight, despite the annoyed glances from some of the adults. But there were smiles too.

“Now me! Now me!” shouted Orwu. “What am I?”

“What do you want to be?”

(…)

Did I misbehave? I don’t know. If I actually did what I did, then, by definition, History must be fine with it, right?

I really hope someone is reading these lines.

(…)

Every night, the kids would swarm me. “We want to play the Game!” they’d shout. Before long, some adults would sit with us.

And observe.

As I mentioned, the Anuir are a curious people. It didn’t take long before they began offering the heroic kids well-meaning advice—at which point I’d shut them up.

And ask them to roll a character.

(…)

Akhul sent Arsa for me one night, right in the middle of a Game. Everyone stared in silence as I followed her into the communal tent.

The entire Council was present. They greeted me with formal nods and earnest frowns. Some were even scowling.

“Stranger,” they still called me that. By then, just a name. “Arsa told us about your foreign game,” Akhul said, his voice like stone grinding against stone.

She nodded solemnly and pulled me down to sit next to her.

“Arsa thinks you can help us,” Akhul continued.

“Me?” I tried to smile. “Whatever pleases the Council.”

“What I’m about to say,” he said, his eyes piercing mine, “remains in this tent. Do you understand what a secret is, Stranger?”

I nodded—by then, my mastery of their language was complete. “I am honored by your trust, Akhul—Council.”

He sank his eyes for an instant, bit the side of his lip and looked around at the rest of the Council. “Very well. We are considering going to war against the Barais.”

I exhaled—but tried to remain calm. It wasn’t my place to judge the wisdom of my leader. I was still just a timer, at heart.

“But not all of us are convinced,” he continued, casting a pointed look at Arsa, who returned his gaze in silent defiance. “Before making a decision that could condemn us all to a premature crossing of the endless rivers, I’d like to consider other… alternatives. Maybe I’m getting cowardly with age.”

“Or wiser,” Arsa said.

“But older, in any case, huh?” he chuckled lightly, bringing the shadow of a grin to the somber meeting. “In any case, Stranger, Arsa says your game could help us.”

I turned to her, eyebrows raised. “M—My game? How?”

She smiled and placed a hand on my lap. “I want you to host a game for us. A very special game.”

“Uh… I don’t see how—”

“Please, listen. We’ll grant you time to prepare. And you’ll do so to the best of your abilities. Can you do that?”

“Yes, of course! I swear to the divine flows I’ll put my soul into it. Still, I can’t see how—”

“You’ll spend time with each and every one of us.” She swept a finger across the entire Council, including Akhul himself. “We’ll answer all your questions, no matter how irrelevant they might seem—or how secret.” She then shot a pointed look at Akhul, who lowered his eyes in acquiescence. Turning back to me, she continued, “You’ll learn everything you can about the Peoples, about us, about the Barais, about their allies, the allies of their allies—everything! We’ll answer all your questions without holding our tongues. And you’ll prepare a set of games for us. We’ll play them all, but not as heroes in an epic tale of wondrous feats like with the children.” Not just the children, I thought. “We’ll play as ourselves—as the Anuir—in a game that will mimic reality. And you, Game Master, you will play the rest of the Peoples. You’ll react as they would react. And we’ll react as we would react. Together, we’ll create our own future. Together, we’ll figure out what might be.”

I was so shocked, I could only mutter one or two unintelligible words.

Akhul leaned in, his eyes locked on mine. “You will do as we say, Game Master,” he said, matter-of-factly.

I immediately bent my head.

(…)

It took me half a moon to prepare the Games. And another half for the entire Council and me to play and replay all sorts of scenarios, with new variations unexpectedly popping up during our long sessions. Many led to more questions, and answers I had to integrate into the next day’s sessions. It was so exhausting that Arsa offered to assist—and thus I gained my first apprentice.

By the time the Moon sank once again into the divine flow, we had wargamed every possible scenario and counter-scenario. And, paradoxically, they all led to the same inevitable conclusion: peace was the only option that beat all others, every single time. So, believe it or not—and I assure you, Akhul had a tougher time believing—our first order of business was to extend our unconditional friendship to the Barais.

As expected, they reacted with initial disdain, but then we organized an Olympic-style set of games (I had brought up the concept in one of the early Council games while playing—and winning—as the Barais, and Arsa immediately began exploring the idea in subsequent games). We invited all the Peoples—at great expense, unfortunately, as we depleted most of our winter cache. Whoever said Akhul was a coward, huh?

When the Barais heard that their bitter rivals (it wasn’t just us—the Furwa were also out for their blood) were all participating in our games and mingling with other tribes, they had no choice but to join as well. They even won the most medals (I tried to convince Akhul to rig the competitions and let them win, but he refused—luckily, they won anyway).

While the games were at their peak, we ‘organized’ spontaneous festivities at the fringes of the events to bring the Peoples together. The hunt was plentiful—as was the music and frenzied dancing. New kids were made. It was wonderful. I even got to showcase my newly found gaming art to other tribes, and it was fortunate that Arsa had become a competent Game Master by then, because the demand for our Games was growing exponentially.

Now, do the dice, the role-playing games, the war-gaming, the ‘Olympic’ games, the medals, the podium and all that count as inventions? I hope not. Otherwise, the chronodistortion wouldn’t allow me to sit here in the dark of this pleasant summer night, writing these secret lines while my people sleep—nor would you be there to read them. Because you are surely up there, millenia in the future, reading my report, right?

Of course you are.

I hope you are. 

By the next spring, after a few more secret games for the Council, all the Peoples were at peace—an unprecedented event. Not even the eldest could remember such a time. And with our constant Council games, we, the Anuir, were wielding our newfound hegemonic soft power with the gentlest of hands.

And I was no longer the Stranger.

I was The Game Master.

The first of many—I’m still constantly receiving apprentices from the farthest of valleys, as are all my former apprentices. And they tell me there are lands beyond filled with strange peoples. Not monsters, they insist. Peoples as well, who deep down, are not so different from the fascinating NPCs we constantly encounter in our Game adventures and who so often require the urgent assistance of our heroic players.

A whole world of strange peoples beyond the last valley, they say.

Eager to join the Games.

“Is this a joke?” the old scientist asks, raising his eyes to the young woman as he finishes reading the sometimes shaky writing.

“How do you explain the unknown tech?” The young woman points at the peculiar sheets of thin, plastic-like fabric. “The box and those pages have been dated to over twenty thousand years ago. And they still look brand new. Not even the Jovian colonies have anything like this technology. I asked.”

The old scientist exhales and rubs a finger across the writing. It feels so solid—so eternal. “How was it found?”

“Pure chance. They were laying the foundations for a new section of the Pan-African Hyperloop Network when they detected a mild decay radiation signal. I guess that’s how it was meant to be recovered.”

“Recovered? By whom?”

“Isn’t it obvious? By the people who sent these… timers back in time.”

“Back in time…” The old scientist shakes his head. “No. Impossible. There must be a… a rational explanation.” He drops the papers on his desk.

The young woman carefully collects them and places them back into the improbably intact box. “Take your time, sir. It took me a whole lot of it before the obvious finally sunk in. And while you sleep on it, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a Game lined up.”