by Pete Hautman
The landscape had become a more muted palette of browns and grays with smudges of dull green. I looked up and saw that the sky had changed color, too—now it was the steely gray of low, moisture-laden clouds.
For the next hour we continued slowly downstream, crossing the river several times. We lost Ceej and Bella’s trail twice, but quickly picked it up again.
At one crossing I noticed the sandy river bottom sucking at my boots. Every step took more effort to lift my feet. Tim, a few feet in front of me, was having the same problem. He stopped, and I saw his body go tense with effort. He shouted something, then his left leg came up, then his right, and suddenly he was half-running, half-swimming for the opposite shore. He scrambled up onto the bank. His feet were bare! He turned to me, urgently signing for me to keep moving, to hurry up. I did not have to understand human speech to know the word he was shouting. Quicksand!
I tried to increase my pace, but the river bottom wanted me. Lift, step, lift, step. I only had a few yards to go. My feet were sinking ankle-deep, then shin-deep into the quicksand. I saw something waving in front of me. Tim holding out a tree branch. I reached, missed, and fell face first into the river. My hands sank into the sand. I pulled them free and lunged again for the branch, catching it this time, holding tight as Tim slowly pulled me up onto the shore.
We sat on the strip of beach, catching our breath. After a few minutes Tim stood up and looked down at his bare feet.
At least you still have your boots, he said. His had been sucked right off his feet.
Do you think Ceej and Bella got caught in that? I asked.
I hope not.
I touched his bare foot. Will you be able to walk?
I don’t have any choice, do 1?
Something cold struck my shoulder. I looked up. The air above us was fuzzy with rain. Several drops struck my face, and suddenly we were caught in a steady, drenching downpour.
Tim stood up. Let’s keep moving.
We continued downstream, moving slowly, Tim picking his way gingerly across the sharp rocks. The rain fell upon us ever harder, running down the walls of the gorge and turning the surface of the river into a sheet of furiously dancing droplets. It was late in the day, no more than an hour or two from sunset. The river had lost its turquoise hue and turned to muddy gray. The trail of footprints began to grow faint as the rain beat upon the sand. I wondered what it was like up on the rim. For the rain to fall this hard on the bottom of the gorge, it would have to be a deluge up top.
THE SKY IN THE HOLE
CEEJ AND BELLA’S FOOTPRINTS WERE soon lost to us, but we kept walking. It was odd to see Tim, who usually moved so quickly and confidently, picking his way so tentatively over the land. But I was glad to see him being so careful. Here at the bottom of the gorge, a bad cut on his foot could be a death sentence. Our feet were our ticket back to the rim.
We had been following the edge of the river for some time, walking with our heads down to keep the constant rain off our faces, when the ground beneath our feet suddenly changed color.
We had just crossed a small mudflat and were following a rock-studded strip of beach, the water to our left, when we came upon a bright orange and yellow seep. We stopped, puzzled by the unfamiliar colors underfoot. It looked like diluted paint, or some sort of chemical spill. I looked to the right, following the strange, colored water to its source, and there, not ten feet away, rising above us, was a dome of rock thirty feet high.
My first impression was that the dome was a pinkish-gray, but the longer I looked, the more colors I saw. The water running over the surface of the dome intensified its colors. The rock looked translucent—I thought I could see an underlayer of pale yellow beneath the pinkish-gray surface. The ragged sides of the dome were striped with crusty white deposits, as if a giant had dribbled milk over it. The bottom edge of the dome was undercut where the river had sliced into it during flood stage. Yellow and orange water oozed from the cut beneath the dome and trickled past our feet down to the river.
Tim moved around the base of the dome. I followed, and as I moved the dome’s colors became deeper and richer. Red shadows, like spidery veins, appeared at the edge of my vision, but when I looked at them directly they disappeared. The longer I stared at it, the more unreal the dome appeared.
It looked alive.
This was Bella’s holy place. It had to be. This was the Sipapuni—but where were Ceej and Bella?
Tim continued around the dome. Afraid to be alone, I hurried to catch up. I found him standing over Ceej’s pack, laying on its side in the rain, as if he had simply shrugged it off. My heart felt like a great fist slowly clenching and unclenching in my chest.
Tim shouted something—probably calling Ceej’s name. We listened to the sound of rain hissing down. Tim called out again. No one answered. He looked at me, his face streaked with rain.
They have to be here someplace, he signed.
I pointed to the top of the dome, thinking we might see something from up there. Tim dropped his pack and scrambled up the slippery rock. The soles of his bare feet were raw and bleeding. I backed away from the dome, keeping him in sight. At the top he stopped, then squatted down. For several seconds I could not see him at all, then he stood up. I wanted him to look at me and wave, but he stood with his head tipped forward, staring down at something. I was afraid to think what he might be seeing. I opened my mouth and made a sound—I don’t know whether it was words or a simple shout. Tim’s head jerked up and he turned to face me. He motioned me to join him. I started toward the dome, splashing through ankle-deep water—I had backed right into the river without knowing it. I reached the dome and began to climb. The rock was warm and slippery, but there were plenty of chinks and crevices, and I soon made it to the top.
Tim stood near the apex, at the edge of a shallow basin about eight feet across. I came up beside him. In the center of the depression was a ragged oval aperture about the size of a bathtub. Rain ran into the basin and dripped from the edges of the opening into the interior of the dome.
I think this is it, Tim signed. He got down on his hands and knees and motioned for me to do the same. We crawled to the edge of the hole and looked inside.
Six feet below the rim was a small pool of bluish-gray water, its surface shivered from the droplets falling from the edge of the opening. We could see, faintly, our shadows on the water. Surrounding the pool was a small chamber not quite large enough to stand up in. Tim pointed at something on a ledge at the far side of the pool. At first I did not know what I was looking at, but then I recognized Bella’s leather backpack. Next to it was a small cloth sack and, beside that, a pile of yellow powder.
But no Bella; no Ceej.
Tim motioned that he was going down into the chamber.
No! I grabbed his arm.
Tim pulled his arm free. Ceej and Bella were down there. There has to be some kind of passage, a way out. He sat down and hung his legs over the edge of the hole.
We don’t know that. I had a bad feeling. I did not like this weird rock. I did not want to be separated from Tim, not even by a few yards. What if something happened to them down there?
There’s only one way to find out. You’ll have to help me. He began to lower himself into the hole. His face tightened with effort as he felt with his feet for something solid to stand on. His fingers were white on the slippery rock. He looked at me and shot out a hand, grabbing my wrist. Bracing myself on the rim, I held him, lowering him slowly into the chamber. He found a foothold and some of the weight came off my arm, then he slipped and for a second I was supporting his full weight, but it was too much. His hand slipped down my wrist; he fell with a shout and a splash into the pool.
I thrust my head into the hole and watched him scramble out of the water onto a ledge. The pool was bubbling.
Are you okay?
Tim gave me a thumbs-up.
What do you see? I asked.
He took a moment to look around the chamber. There’s not much here. N
o other way out. He crawled around the pool to the backpack. He lifted an object and held it up for me to see. It was a small figurine carved from a piece of wood—I recognized it as a Hopi kachina. Tim returned the kachina to the backpack and turned his attention to the pool. It looks like some kind of spring. I can see bubbles coming up. There’s a funny smell, like electricity. He scooped up a handful of water and tasted it. It’s fizzy, like at Blue Spring. The air tastes funny.
I reached down, beckoning.
Just a minute. He moved his face close to the surface of the pool.
I smelled the electric smell now, too. The hairs lifted on the back of my neck.
I see something.
Suddenly the pool began bubbling furiously. Tim stood up. The water in the pool was rising, covering the ledge, climbing up his legs. It looked like he was standing in a huge cauldron of boiling water. Tim looked at me, his face white with terror. The water bubbled around his thighs. I reached in and caught his hand. I lifted, thinking that he was too heavy for me, but fear gave me strength and in an instant he had popped up out of the hole and scrambled onto the top of the dome. We stood up and found ourselves looking at a changed landscape.
The rain was thick and hard. The sky above was dark gray, the gorge had fallen deep into shadow. But the main thing was that the dome, the Sipapuni, was completely surrounded by water. We were standing on a tiny island in the pouring rain, the river flowing around us.
While Tim had been inside the Sipapuni, the river had risen several feet. Instead of a meandering little stream, the Little Colorado had become torrent, red with sediment, filling the gorge with wall to wall water.
Tim and I looked at each other. Water poured from the sky. We could see it climbing the sides of the dome. Within minutes it would come up over the top.
We have to swim for it, Tim said.
Swim to where? This flood will sweep us all the way down to the Grand Canyon.
Tim shook his head and pointed downstream. That’s where it’s coming from. It’s flowing backwards.
I shook my head, confused.
It’s not the rain, he said. It’s the dam. The dam broke. Look. He pointed at the water. It’s red. This is Colorado River water.
He was right, but there was no time to think about what that meant. The river water was only a few feet below us; the rain was coming down so hard we could hardly see the walls of the gorge. I looked down at the hole at our feet and saw a boiling cauldron of blue and orange and yellow, rising. Then, for a single frozen instant, the surface of the water crystallized and I was looking down through a shimmering window. Far below, between thick lumps of cloud, I saw a turquoise ribbon of river, its shores crowded with mesquite and acacia, winding through a deep canyon. We were moving down through the clouds, falling. I gasped and grabbed Tim, unable to tear my eyes from the hole as the ghost river rushed toward us with dizzying speed. The surface of the pool exploded, sending a bubbling riot of colors up through the hole, pouring over our feet, running down the sides of the dome. Tim shouted something, pulling me away from the aperture. Suddenly we were in the river, swept away in a whirl of rain, rock, and river. I paddled frantically, trying to keep my head above water. I saw Tim’s head a few yards away and swam toward him, but then lost sight of him as an eddy caught me and spun me around. I couldn’t tell whether I was headed upstream or downstream or toward the walls, but I kept swimming, tossed about by sudden changes in the current as the water moved the wrong way through the gorge. I imagined myself dashed against the sharp rocks of the canyon walls, sucked into a whirlpool, knocked on the head by a hunk of debris, or simply swimming with no place to land until I became too exhausted to keep my head above water and sank slowly to rest on the river bottom. My arms were hurting and my breath came in gasps. I was sure I was about to die when I heard a sound like a human voice. Was it Tim, or thunder echoing through the gorge? It came again. I changed direction and headed for the sound, kicking and paddling with new energy. The water swirling around me and splashing in my face and the rain pouring down made it impossible to see. Was I moving forward or being swept away? Again, I heard Tim calling out to me. My arms were like logs, my legs floppy as rubber bands, but I kept swimming, moving toward the sound of his voice.
THE WORLD
I REMEMBER TIM’S HAND ON my wrist, pulling me out of the water. I remember climbing, clawing our way up the sides of the gorge, struggling to stay above the rising flood waters, Tim’s voice urging me onward. At some point the river peaked and we found ourselves wedged into a deep crevice. The last shreds of daylight disappeared. We spent the night clinging to each other for warmth, too exhausted and terrified to sleep.
By first light the flood had subsided. Dawn came bright and clear and cool. We were near the top of the Redwall, a few hundred feet above the canyon floor. The walls of the gorge and the banks of the river were covered with mud and debris. Mesquite and tamarisk trees drooped, stripped of their leaves and coated with fine red silt. The river, opaque with sediment, snaked through the muddy wreckage.
The Sipapuni had disappeared, leaving behind only bare, muddy beach.
Tim and I began to climb, inching our way slowly up the crevice. It seemed impossible, but since we had no choice, we climbed. By the time the sun appeared over the rim, we had found a sheep trail. Tim’s feet were a mass of cuts and scrapes. I tore the sleeves from my shirt and wrapped them.
By midday we had reached the rim. Looking down at the flood-ravaged gorge, it was almost impossible to believe that Ceej and Bella were still alive. But then, we should not have survived either.
What do you think happened to them? Tim asked.
I didn’t answer him right away. I had seen something in the Sipapuni. Another canyon; another river. Had it been real, or a hallucination?
What did you see in the pool? I asked.
I thought I saw a bird, Tim signed.
Is that all?
Clouds.
I nodded. Maybe Bella was right. Maybe they passed through.
Through to what?
I swept my arms through the air to include the gorge, the plateau, the sky. Maybe to this.
Tim stared at me.
Maybe we passed through, too, I said. Doesn’t the world feel different to you?
Tim shook his head. No!
Then what happened to the Sipapuni?
The food washed it away.
A rock bigger than a house? I don’t think so. I pointed down. That was where Blue Springs was. Now there is nothing but mud-covered rock.
Tim stared into the gorge.
It even smells different, I said.
The air was crisp and clean and fresh with the smell of wet grasses and trees, the blue of the sky was almost painful in its purity, and the sun seemed larger and more golden than before. A faint haze rose from the rain-soaked desert.
Tim was shaking his head. He would not leave his world behind so easily.
I don’t believe it, he said.
I wasn’t sure I believed it either. Maybe the river had washed away the Sipapuni. Maybe Blue Springs was simply concealed beneath a layer of mud. Maybe the sun was the same sun and the air smelled different only because of the rain. Maybe Ceej and Bella were dead on the river bottom, their mouths filled with silt.
Wherever we were, we both knew that we had to move on. We would not survive another night without food and shelter. I retied the makeshift bandages on Tim’s feet. Hungry and tired, the sun warming our backs, we headed east, following the rim of the gorge. In another twenty miles we would come to the ruins of a town called Cameron where amid the long-dead corpses and ghosts we would find clothing and shelter and ancient cans of food.
If Cameron was there.
If not, one way or another, we would survive.
AUTHOR’S NOTES
THE SIPAPUNI
The Sipapuni is real. It is a large travertine limestone dome located in the Little Colorado Gorge approximately five miles above the point where the Little Colorado River
fows into the Grand Canyon. The dome was formed by a mineral-rich spring many tens of thousands of years ago.
Many Hopis believe that their ancestors emerged from an aperture at the top of the Sipapuni, a gateway from the Third World to this, the Fourth World.
It is one of their most sacred places.
THE FLU
Everybody has been sick with influenza. Usually it makes a person miserable for a week or so, then goes away. But not all strains of the flu are the same. In 1918, an influenza epidemic killed one hundred million people, many of them young, healthy adults. No one knows for sure what made the 1918 flu so deadly, but most experts agree on one thing: It could happen again.
