Here is a blurb and the opening pages from A Foreseen Future.

In 1909 a young girl named Charlotte discovers a strange object buried in the woods, clutched by a long-dead hand. Shortly afterward she disappears, never to be seen again.

In 2047 Anna Lopez is a chemical engineer living in the sweltering Southwest, about to unlock a secret that will change the course of the human race. 

In 2083 Carson Somerville is on a hike when a young girl nearly two centuries old appears in his path. At the same time, in every time, the universe dies, as time decays inexorably from the future to the past. All three are connected. All three have the same haunting dreams of the end of the world. And all three know it has to do with the mysterious object Charlotte found that day: a device called the Prominence, that seems to have a will of its own.

If Charlotte, Anna, and Carson are to save the universe from its unmaking, they will have to find each other across centuries and unlock the Prominence’s secrets, before everything they know and have ever known becomes undone.

A Foreseen Future is a thoughtful, intelligent, ambitious and mind-bending novel spanning the breadth of time, while remaining grounded by its lead characters. It is as much a mystery as science fiction, as much about time travel as it is about self-discovery and human connection.

PART ONE

Philip
[1909]

Philip’s younger brother Edward had always been trouble, restless like a jittery thigh that refused to stay still, gambling and drinking with all manner of lowlifes and ruffians who skulked about the outskirts of Longshore near Willard Tafton’s tavern, laughing and smoking with disreputable men as if they were old friends. Philip was presently wandering the streets of Longshore in search of Edward, but so far had not found him. He was not at the boarding house on Turnbull Street, and the men loitering on the porch did not know his whereabouts. 

Their father maintained a state of smoldering anger regarding the progressive ideas and general waywardness of his youngest son that was impressive in its own right if it didn’t also threaten to put him into an early grave. Their mother hardly dared to speak of Edward in her husband’s presence for fear of the thunderstorm she would bring down upon herself and any other poor soul who happened to be within the blast radius of Pierre Geronteaux’s fiery temper. 

Philip looked down just in time (warned by the sudden smell of sawdust in his nostrils and the rasp of metal teeth biting into wood) to keep himself from stumbling over a small pile of scrap lumber that a workman was tossing onto the walkway in front of George McClintock’s mercantile. Philip was forced to do an awkward stutter-step that nearly sent him sprawling before he could regain his balance. He scowled and considered having stern words with the workman, telling him in no uncertain terms to keep his scraps out of the path of pedestrians; but the youth had already turned his back to Philip and was sawing through another piece of lumber with long even strokes, utterly unaware of Philip’s presence. 

He decided to let it be and walked on. 

It was a bright afternoon in late September; sunlight shimmered atop the wide flow of the Columbia River, whose banks lay fifty yards or so to Philip’s left. He saw a number of timber-laden barges moving toward the wharfs, a common sight on the river (timber was, after all, not just big business in Washington but also his father’s business), as well as the snub-nosed canoes favored by the Cowlitz Indians. A sternwheeler with a slender ribbon of gray-black smoke trailing from its smokestack moved westward with the current. Philip assumed it would make several stops downriver before arriving at the Pacific. It did not look to be porting at Longshore, however. Philip saw several deckhands on the bow and a number of passengers on the middle and upper decks, looking out across the waters toward the timbered hills that lay beyond the town. A few pointed at something in the distance, and he knew the object of their fascination without having to turn his head: the massive white shoulders of Mount Saint Helens that dominated the northeast horizon.

Philip passed the Longshore Bank & Trust office, which was notable for being the first all-brick building constructed in the town, boasted three floors, and showcased an elegant and lavish lobby visible through the large windows along its frontage. It was owned by Andrew Stockton-James, whose office occupied much of the third floor and provided an expansive view of the town, the river, and surrounding countryside. 

Philip’s father and Mr. Stockton-James had worked together often over the years to improve Longshore, with Stockton-James managing the financing of various projects — such as the expansion of the wharfs, or the Bonaventure Hotel that opened last year — with Pierre providing the lumber and other building materials, as well as labor. The construction of the bank in brick had created a great deal of friction between the two that lasted several months, like an early winter chill, but Stockton-James was adamant that his business be built in a way to not only stand out from those around it, but to project an aura of authority and permanence he simply did not feel a wooden structure provided. Philip’s father grumbled and fumed but eventually relented and returned to their business dealings, not only because he felt that Stockton-James was one of the few equals he had in Longshore and one of the very few men he could call a friend, but also because he had no other options for financing, and his ambitions were large and growing. 

Philip had been quite glad of the reconcilement. He was engaged to Margaret Stockton-James. They were to be wed in six months, and it would have been dreadfully awkward if the fathers of the bride and groom were not speaking. 

Philip continued his walk, winding his way through the main avenue of Longshore and turning onto Barstow Street at the confectionary. Mary McClintock, George’s young daughter, was walking with her nanny and waved hello to Philip as he passed. 

He found as associate of Edward’s smoking on a street corner. Philip could not recall the man’s name but inquired after his brother. The man had not seen him, so Philip left him with the same message he had delivered at the boarding house: his mother had requested his presence at dinner that evening, and would be most please if he could attend. 

Longshore was not an old town. The earliest settlers had come here in 1816, a handful of families along with their hopes, but all had died after a few years, and it wasn’t until 1831 that more arrived and laid the foundations of the town. But when he looked at the trees he felt the oldness of the land itself, that he stood in a truly ancient place burdened by an immense, almost unimaginable weight of time and history. 

He shook his head and continued on his way. Those were the kinds of thoughts Edward had, poetic nonsense about the unspoiled purity of the Cowlitz. “Because their ways are different does not mean they are wrong,” Edward had hissed one night during a particularly virulent argument with his father regarding Edward’s association with the Indians. “In their eyes we are little more than thieves and interlopers intent on their destruction. And they are not wrong.”

Philip shook his head at the recollection. His brother knew nothing of the world, had lived a life sheltered from hardship because of their family’s wealth. Philip, however, well understood the business dealings that were the engines propelling civilization ever forward. He was his father’s son. Practical and dependable. That was what mattered. 

He finally gave up on his endeavor of locating Edward. He would get the message or not. He headed for home.

Barstow Street climbed steadily upward at a gentle incline until, half a mile or so outside of town, it intersected an old horse path; on the far side of the path Barstow Street became Geronteaux Lane, which in turn led to his family’s home. The house was a timber mansion built upon a hill with a commanding view of the town and river; the towering fir trees that had once inhabited the land between the hill and river had long ago been cleared away, leaving an unobstructed view even more impressive than the one from Mr. Stockton-James’ office. 

The hill was a grass-covered mound that sat in a shallow bowl-shaped depression on the southern side of forested foothills that led, further north, into the depths of the Cascade Mountains. The Kilatowa Creek flowed through this depression across a bed of water-smoothed rocks, descending from the Cascades before bending to the southwest as it swung out in a wide curve around the hill. From there it widened even more, swollen from the inflow of several tributaries, until it emptied into the great Columbia River west of Longshore, in the area where Philip’s father planned to build his massive lumber mill. Philip wondered if an even bigger expansion of the wharfs was part of the plan to transport the lumber generated by the mill, or what deals his father might be making with shipping companies to expand their capacity. 

He found his sisters Sophie and Charlotte in the parlor. Sophie, the older of the two at sixteen, was reading a book. Charlotte, the youngest of the Geronteaux children at fourteen, was writing in a small journal. 

“Hello, girls.” 

They greeted him in turn, both without looking up from what they were doing. 

“What are you reading?” he asked Sophie. 

“Something papa gave me.” She looked up at him and leaned forward conspiratorially. “It’s about dark spirits that haunt the forests and heathen Indian rituals. It’s scary and I love it. But don’t tell mama or she’ll take it away.”

Philip smiled at her and winked. “Your secret is safe with me.” He turned to his youngest sister. Charlotte was at the secretary writing methodically in her journal. The last rays of sunlight struck the wall above her head, creating a splash of brightness in an otherwise darkening room. Ringlets of chestnut-colored hair had come loose from their combs, falling downward as if reaching toward the pages.  

Charlotte was a slight girl, pale and often unwell. In the latter she was not so different from her mother, who ensconced herself for days at a time in her room due to one malady or another. Charlotte’s frailty were more physical in nature — cuts, bruises, sprains, even a broken wrist a year ago — than those of Elizabeth Geronteaux, whose ailments were more of a general languor and an aversion to bright light and loud noises. 

“Are you writing in your diary?” Philip asked. 

Charlotte nodded, still without looking up. 

“Look at her face, Philip,” said Sophie. “She’s hurt herself again.” 

Charlotte slammed down her fountain pen on the diary, splattering a tiny constellation of ink across the open pages. “I did not!” 

Sophie grinned, quite pleased with herself. She liked to stir up trouble when she could, taking great pleasure in sowing chaos and discord; in that she was like Edward, whereas Charlotte and Philip were of similar temperament, thoughtful and contemplative, their gazes turned inward as often as outward. “You did too, and mama won’t be happy when she sees you.”

Before Charlotte could utter a rebuttal, Philip knelt down and placed himself between the two girls. “Charlotte, let me see, please.” 

“Show him, Charlotte. Show him what you did to your face.” 

“Sophie, enough.” He reached forward and gently lifted Charlotte’s head with a finger beneath her chin. Her lips were pressed together in an angry line and her gray eyes smoldered with anger. Philip realized she looked a great deal like their father when she was angry. 

There was a red welt on her right cheek and a slight bit of swelling around it, but that was all. Philip had been expecting half her face to be a mass of injuries from the way Sophie carried on. 

“That doesn’t look bad at all,” he said. “Does it hurt?”

She shook her head. 

“How did it happen?” 

“She was out in the forest,” said Sophie. 

“Sophie I don’t want to hear another word from you.” He let a frost of anger touch his voice to let her know he was serious. He was usually indulgent with the girls — probably too indulgent at times — and that gave them a license to interact with him in ways that were sometimes not appropriate for their disparate ages. 

“I was playing in the forest and a branch scratched me, but it’s fine. I’m allowed to play there.” She gave Sophie a withering glare. 

“You’re not supposed to go in alone.” Sophie could not help herself. “Mama said so.”

Philip turned his head enough to see her from the corner of his eye. “Another word and you leave the room, and I’ll speak with father about your disobedience,” said Philip sternly. “Am I clear?” She nodded sullenly. 

He faced Charlotte again. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” He straightened, his figure looming over the girls which he hoped lent him an air of added authority. “But you should at least let someone know if you want to go into the forest to play. It can be dangerous.”

“Papa knew,” she said, so quietly that Philip could scarcely hear her. “But I’ll be careful.” 

* * *

Philip went to his study on the second floor and spent some time writing in his own journal. It had grown dark enough that he had to light an oil lamp. He was finishing his account of the discussion with the girls when the call came for dinner. 

The dining room was at the rear of the house with windows facing the rising hills. It was fully dark by then and nothing was visible through the glass, which showed only the dim reflection of the room itself, a ghostly mirage mimicking their movements. 

The table was set and lit with candles placed in a line down the center. His mother was already seated at her place at the end of the table. Sophia and Charlotte were there as well; Philip took note that Charlotte kept her injured cheek turned away from their mother and had loosened her hair so that it covered most of the scratch. He gave Sophie a stern look that he hoped conveyed the message that she was to say nothing about it. Sophie returned his gaze with a wide-eyed look of innocence whose meaning he could interpret as either one of agreement…or not. It was impossible to say. 

As Philip was taking his chair, Edward swept into the room. “I received your message, Mother,” he said. He looked at Philip. “Thank you for delivering it. I’m sorry I missed you.” 

“Of course.” Philip resisted the urge to ask Edward where he had been. 

Edward was about the same height as Philip but with a stockier frame; a thickness especially around his neck and shoulders that reminded Philip of a pugilist, the kind whose matches were advertised in the pages of the Longshore Herald. (Another of Edward’s unsavory habits was betting on boxing matches that took place in Longshore or nearby Wellington, a horrid little town known mostly for its brothels and brawling.) 

Over the past few years, Edward’s face had transformed from that of a generally happy youth into a glowering scowl, his eyebrows forever pinched above his nose, the corners of his mouth drawn downward in a manner that bestowed a look of perpetual disapproval upon him. His curly hair was unkempt. His moustache was a thin line across his lip, more a desire of a moustache than the thing itself. 

“Hello, my boy,” said their mother. Elizabeth Geronteaux was a large woman with a thick nest of graying hair piled upon her head and held in place with an assortment of lavish combs and pins. Her hands were round and smooth, her ringed fingers as plump as sausages. She no longer had much in the way of a neck; it had all but disappeared beneath a dangling swoop of flesh, like the throat of a bullfrog. 

“Hello to you as well, girls.”

Sophie and Charlotte said their hellos in unison, so synchronized it was as if they had rehearsed for a performance. “You haven’t been to dinner for a while,” said Sophie, ever the one to cut to the heart of an issue. “Will you be coming back all of the time now?”

“Not all of the time, no. But I will when I can.”

Their father entered. His eyebrows rose in surprise at the sight of Edward as he moved to his place at the head of the table, beneath an immense portrait of Pierre’s grandfather that had been done by a Parisian artist of some renown. Edward returned the glare with the same if not greater intensity even as they all stood to acknowledge the patriarch, excepting their mother, whose weakened legs would not permit her to rise and sit with any regularity. 

“So you’ve returned for a meal,” said their father to Edward as he lowered himself into his chair. Pierre was a bear of a man, over six feet in height with a barrel chest and even wider waist. The chair creaked as he settled into it, like the ground rumbling in displeasure after an earthquake. “How very cosmopolitan of you.”

They all sat. “Mother invited me, but I’m happy to leave if that’s your preference.”

“Please, will the two of you stop arguing for five minutes?” said their mother. Her words emerged in labored gasps, her face already reddening from strain and nervous anticipation of another family squabble. “I’d rather not have the meal ruined before we even start.”

Philip’s father and Edward settled into a chilly détente for most of the meal, eating in a sullen silence punctuated with idle chit-chat between Philip and his sisters. Fortunately Sophie decided to behave and did not mention Charlotte’s scratch. Philip forced himself to create topics of discussion because he found that in the silence between servings the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner was almost too loud to bear, as if it were counting down to some impending disaster.

His mother regained her composure and calmed herself with generous helpings of pheasant, shrimp, peas, and potatoes. 

Philip remained on edge, wondering if Edward would unleash some fresh tirade upon them or empty a revolver into the pheasant, but the remainder of dinner passed without incident. Edward excused himself, thanked their mother for the invitation, and was even polite to their father before he departed the house. The girls ran upstairs as soon as their father granted permission while their mother retired to her room. 

Philip and his father enjoyed a glass of port, his father smoking his cigar while Philip enjoyed a cigarette. They spoke a bit about Philip’s impending marriage and the preparation of the home they would move into after the wedding. When he finished his second glass of port, Philip’s father wished him good night and disappeared upstairs. Philip took his port and cigarette to the veranda at the rear of the house and sat in the darkness, lost in thought as he listened to the sounds of the forest.

Sometime later he put his empty glass down on a side table and drifted off to sleep. He awoke, unaware of how much time had passed, startled by a sound on the side of the house. He was cold and disoriented, and it took him a moment to recognize that the sound was from the servant door opening and closing. The door was on the northern side of the house and connected to several branching paths. One circled the property, and two others descended the hill in different directions; one toward a storage shed, the other toward the stable. Both had been built near the base on the hill on the side opposite the creek where there was a flat apron of land suited for such structures. 

He wondered what Mathilde or Gwendoline or Harold would be doing out at this hour. Curious, he levered himself stiffly out of the chair and wandered over to the corner of the house, rubbing his hands together briskly. 

He looked along the path that ran the length of the house toward the front, but saw no one. From the corner of his eye he saw a flash of light as someone near the base of the hill lit an oil lantern. The figure was moving quickly, and held the lantern in such a way that the body of the person in question blocked most of the light. Philip saw little more than an inky black silhouette limned with a flickering outline of warm light.

The figure was small, and with a start he realized it was one of the girls. Charlotte, if he was not mistaken. She had taken the path toward the storage shed, whose wide shuttered doors she had just passed. 

What on earth was she doing out here at this time of night? She was already nearing the edge of the trees, following a narrow hunting track. In moments she would be swallowed by the deep darkness of the forest. 

He opened his mouth to call out to her, then decided to follow instead to see what she was up to. It was uncharacteristic of him to do such a thing, but his decisive stand with his brother had emboldened him and made him want to break out of his usual habits. She would still receive quite a scolding from him, and perhaps worse from their father, but first he wanted to see what mischief she intended and not rein her in before he could find out. 

He hurried down the hill, careful of his footing; a low mist drifted above the ground, making the path slick and treacherous. A waxing gibbous moon had risen above the trees, bright enough that he cast a faint shadow on the silvered whisps of fog and dewy grass. 

He reached the foot of the hill, crossed the grassy apron, then began the shallow climb along the hunting path that led into the forest. Once beneath the canopy of trees it became fiercely dark. He had no light of his own and realized he had been misled by the moonlight, which had done well enough to brighten open ground but did nothing to illuminate the track within the forest, unable to penetrate the dense canopy far above. 

He wondered if he should turn back and interrogate her upon her return. But then he feared something amiss might befall her out here, so he resolved to follow her despite the impenetrable gloom. 

Fortunately Charlotte’s pace had slowed upon entering the forest. He caught glimpses of the lantern up ahead, appearing and disappearing between the trees like a faerie light out of legend. He used that to help guide his way. The hunting track was nigh to invisible, and he stumbled with almost every step. He tried lighting several matches, but they burned out too quickly to be of any real use. 

He felt he was closing the distance between them when she disappeared over the top of the rise they were currently climbing. His legs were burning from the exertion; his breathing came in labored gasps, and despite the chill there was sweat on his forehead and back. His shoes were ruined, and he felt a deep ache in his lower back. He found himself growing angrier and angrier with Charlotte. What in heaven’s name was she doing out here? He could think of no suitable answer. 

He reached the top of the rise and was dumbfounded to discover that she seemed to have veered off of the hunting track after a short distance on the far side, descending instead down an alarmingly precipitous slope into an even deeper darkness. He almost called out to her then, shouting her name in the night, demanding that she return at once; but now more than ever he wanted to discover her destination without halting her prematurely. 

Besides, he did not think it wise to bellow in the forest in the dead of night. He did not want to call wolves or a bear down upon him. Such would be his luck. 

But he did not want wolves or bears to happen across Charlotte either, so despite the treacherous decline in front of him, he did what he could to hasten his pace. 

A while passed before she finally halted, which allowed him to catch up. He found her in a small clearing at the base of a fir tree. She was on her knees, digging with a garden trowel beneath one of the thick, gnarled roots. The lantern was on the ground beside the hole she was digging. 

“Charlotte Marie, whatever are you doing out here?” he said, more out of breath than he would have liked, but he did not want to wait a moment longer before speaking. 

He expected her to bolt upright and wheel about, shocked to have been caught by her eldest brother doing…whatever it was she was doing. 

But instead of an appropriate response of shame and embarrassment, she instead paused only a moment in her digging, wiped her face with one of her hands, then resumed work with the trowel. “I need to find it,” she said. She spoke softly, and her voice had such a dreamlike quality he wondered suddenly if this entire endeavor were due to sleepwalking. 

“Charlotte, look at me.”

She ignored him and continued her digging. 

He had a moment of vertigo where he felt quite strongly that he was still sleeping, that this was a strange meandering dream that had insinuated its way into his mind while he remained steadfastly asleep on the veranda. It was surreal in a way that felt outside the boundaries of the waking world. 

He closed his eyes for a long moment, and when he opened them the sense of vertigo had passed. 

His patience at an end, he stepped forward, grasped Charlotte firmly by the arm, and hauled her to her feet. Her head jerked around and she actually hissedat him like a startled and angry cat. He had never seen her do such a thing in her entire life. He was so taken aback that he released her arm when she shook it violently.

“You don’t understand,” she said, again in that dreamlike voice. By some trick of the lamplight her eyes looked to be filled with fire. 

“I have to find it.” She turned away from him.

He hesitated, unsure how to proceed. After a few moments to contemplate courses of action while she returned to her digging, he decided he should play along with her since his attempt at forceful interdiction had elicited a violent reaction.

“What are you digging for?” 

“The Prominence.”

“The Prominence? What on earth is that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you the one who buried it?”

She paused and tilted her head as she pondered his question. “I’m not sure.” She resumed her work with the trowel. The hole was quite deep now. He wondered how her arm and shoulder would feel in the morning. 

“Then how do you know it’s here?” 

“I dreamed about it. And I remember.”

Before he could voice a question about her contradictory answer, her trowel struck something metallic. This energized her even further, and she dug with renewed fervor. She tossed the trowel aside and leaned into her excavation with both hands to grasp whatever it was she had come seeking. 

She strained to break it free, but it resisted her efforts, stubbornly enmeshed in a netlike system of small roots. She retrieved the trowel and used it like a knife to attack the roots until she had severed enough of them to pull the object free. She was straining so hard that when the last of the roots broke she fell backward onto the acorn-strewn ground. 

He found himself immensely curious about the object that had generated such odd behavior in Charlotte. He crouched down on aching legs — his knees popped ominously as he balanced on the balls of his feet — as Charlotte sat up and held out the object so she could see it better in the lamplight. 

The object — the Prominence, as she had named it — was perhaps two feet long, a narrow cylinder three inches in diameter at its midpoint that tapered to points at either end. Four triangular protuberances were spaced equidistantly around the center; each was about two inches in length. It appeared to be fashioned from a single piece of dark metal that drank the light. There were strange markings etched into its surface that reminded him of Chinese characters, though there was one that repeated more than the others.

He found it fascinating, and momentarily forgot his irritation with Charlotte. What was this thing? It looked vaguely like a tool but he could not begin to guess what it might be used for. 

He grabbed the lantern and moved it closer to the object. As the lantern swung over the hole she had dug he caught a glint of something alarming buried in the dirt. He lowered the lantern into the hole to get a clearer look — 

He gasped and recoiled, nearly dropping the lantern. 

There was a skeletal hand partially unearthed in the hole. The hand had been holding it beneath the veinlike network of roots. From the ruin of several of the fingers, it looked as if Charlotte had used the trowel to break them to free the object.

“Charlotte, that’s a human hand!” 

She nodded in an absent way, her gaze locked on the object she held. “I know. I think it might be me.”

That was enough to snap Philip out of whatever indulgence he had been allowing her out here in the dangerous, mirky night. “Get up. We are going home right now and you will explain yourself in the morning to me as well as father.”

She turned it back and forth in her hand. There was a sudden change in the air, an electrification of some kind — Philip had no other way to describe it. Every hair on his arm stood on end; his scalp tightened as if it had been struck with an arctic wind. 

Charlotte’s face went utterly blank. “Oh,” she said, but it sounded nothing like his sister. “This was made by the Grendel.”

She collapsed as soon as the last strange word was out of her mouth, falling back as swiftly as a puppet whose strings had been severed with a violent swing of an ax. Her eyes were closed, and for a horrible moment that lasted much longer in his mind and later memory than it had in that instant, he thought she was dead.

Then he saw her lids flutter and that she was breathing, and the world again resumed its motion. 

“My God, Charlotte. What have you done?”