Standing up, Walker stated, “It doesn’t matter why you did, Náat. I will do what must be done—I will replace the paho.” He reached over to lay the prayer stick on the shrine.
The sound of rolling rocks startled him. Holding the paho inches above the shrine, Walker jerked his head backward. His eyes searched the mouth of the cave. A brilliant flash of lightning lit the cave’s entrance. In that split second, a head of curly, dark brown hair appeared. It was followed by a long, thin body rolling into the cave. A lean, freckled face looked up at Walker in surprise, and a toothy grin streaked across the face.
The entire cave exploded with thunder. The deafening sound echoed through Walker’s head, piercing his brain with pain.
Total darkness consumed the cave. The air felt heavy with age, decay, and death. The cave seemed to shake, twist, turn, swirl. Walker fell to his knees. The sharp, rocky floor bit into his skin.
Thunder shook his body in great waves. The air seemed to get heavier, thicker, harder to breathe. Walker gasped for a breath. None would come. The cave twisted, twirled, and swirled faster and faster.
He felt his leaden body slumping forward, his cheek striking the wall of the cave as he hit the hard ground. Yet the sensation of endless floating seem to lift him up into the thick darkness.
“Air . . . Can’t breathe . . . Need air . . . Great Taawa help me!” Walker’s mind cried. Endless darkness swirled around and around.
4
Warmth licked at his stinging cheek. Warmth filled his cold body, but Walker couldn’t get his eyelids to open.
“Hey, wake up. Are you okay?” Walker could hear. The strange voice sounded a thousand miles away. Its words traveled on thunder.
“Come on. You have to wake up.” Whoever was talking started to shake Walker’s shoulder. “Wake up!”
Walker tried to focus his thoughts. His mind seemed to be floating in and out of time.
“Here, have some water,” said the voice. Walker felt ice water flooding over his cheeks and into his nose. His eyes flew open, his mouth gasping for air. Coughing racked his body.
“There. You’re okay—you’re okay. The old water trick works every time,” said the strange voice with a nervous laugh. “Some storm eh? I’ve never seen thunder and lightning like that before. Thought I was going to get fried any minute. That last big thunder blast all but knocked me out, too. It shook the cave like an earthquake. Really strange. Do you want to sit up?” the voice asked.
Walker let the arms attached to the voice help him to a sitting position. The coughing stopped. He could breathe again.
He looked at the voice’s body. A vague memory of the face formed in his mind. It was the same lean, very freckled face that had smiled at him just before the cave had exploded with thunder. The face was framed with wild, dark, curly brown hair. Light brown eyes shone with relief as they looked down at him. The full lips spread into the same giant, toothy grin.
“Am I glad that you’re all right!” said the boy, who seemed to be about eleven or twelve years old. He was a good four inches taller than Walker. “You are all right, aren’t you? Do you want to stand up?”
Walker shook his head. Pain thundered inside of it. He reached up to touch it but found the paho was still in his right hand.
“Here, let me get you some more water,” said the boy, moving toward the pool and dipping his large freckled hands into it. Looking at the water dribbling out between his long fingers, he asked, “How about if I just help you get over to the pool?” Gently but firmly, he helped Walker half scoot, half crawl the foot or so to the edge of the pool.
Walker cupped his hand and dipped it into the pool. The water’s coldness shot through his body like lightning. His head cleared and focused sharply. He looked around the cave. It was bathed in sunlight. The air smelled different somehow.
“You’re looking better already. What’s your name? You’re Indian, aren’t you?” the boy said.
Walker looked at the fast-talking boy. His freckled face was one big grin. He knew that the bahana meant no insult by the question.
“Hopi,” said Walker.
“What village are you from?”
Walker took a second look at this friendly bahana. Not many whites knew that there were different villages at Hopi.
Walker answered, “Mishongnovi.”
“Second Mesa, eh? The one by Corn Rock, right? I went to one of your religious Kachina dances in July. It sure was hot. I couldn’t believe there’s only one pop machine in all of Hopi and absolutely no place to get pizza. I thought I was going to die!” the boy said, shaking his curly head.
Walker took another drink from the pool. His mind was full of questions. But he knew if he just waited, all would be answered.
“My name is Trumount Abraham Grotewald, but everyone calls me Tag,” stated the boy, plopping down next to Walker. “You’re about fifteen years old, right?”
Walker nodded. Pain raced through his brain.
“I’m twelve, tall for my age, and my Mom says I’m twelve going on twenty. That’s because I’m an only child, I guess. Anyway, my Dad is the archaeologist here at Walnut Canyon. We live in a trailer on the rim of the canyon. I’d like to live in town, but Dad says he needs to be close to his work. That’s all he ever talks about—‘dead Indians.’ ” Tag looked apologetically at Walker. “No offense meant. It’s just that my Dad eats, drinks, and sleeps archaeology. He doesn’t like sports or even television. Crazy, eh? I mean that’s all he does is archaeology. Sometimes I get pretty sick of it all.” Tag shrugged his broad, bony shoulders.
“Anyway, that’s why I’m here. He said he was going to start a dig in the cave for some new study.” Tag’s face broke into his giant grin. He reached into his T-shirt pocket and held out a silver compass. “I decided I’d come up here first and bury my compass here in the cave.” He chuckled. “Won’t that just kill my Dad when he digs up an official Boy Scout compass in this ancient Sinagua cave? Great, eh?” Tag looked at Walker. His grin faded.
“Well anyway, just call me Tag.” He stuck out his hand to shake.
Walker looked at the huge, outstretched, freckled hand. Why did all bahanas want to shake hands? he wondered. Ignoring the bahana’s hand, he stared into the pool.
After a few seconds, Tag dropped his hand into his lap. “You haven’t told me your name.”
“Qeni Wayma Talayesva,” Walker said, looking up at Tag. In spite of himself, he felt his mouth turn up in a smile. “You bahanas call me Walker.”
Tag chuckled. “I can see why. Your name is as bad as mine!”
Laughing too, Walker started to stand up. His legs were still weak. He sat back down.
“Still wobbly, eh? Better rest a minute more before we climb out of here. Boy, am I glad I found the cave when I did. I’ve never seen lightning up that close before. A big bolt of it hit the tree out in front just as I rolled inside,” said Tag, pointing to the mouth of the cave. His eyes grew large. Scrambling to his feet, he hurried to the cave’s entrance.
“The tree is totally gone,” he exclaimed, turning back to look at Walker. “There’s not even a trace of it left!”
His head pounding with each step, Walker made his way to the entrance. The ledge was barren; not even a single blade of beeweed grew in the many cracks of the limestone. The high noon sun shone brightly. A raven floated in the air above, screeching.
“This is weird.” Tag ran his hands through his curly hair.
Walker scanned the narrow ledge. “There are no rain puddles.”
“You’re right.” Tag knelt down and touched the pitted and cracked limestone. “It’s not even damp. In fact, it’s hot. The rain was coming down in buckets when I finally made it into the cave. Now there’s not a trace.” Looking at his wrist watch, he said, “My watch stopped at 12:00, so I’m not sure what time it is now. I must have been knocked unconscious, too. We must have been out a couple of hours at least.”
Walker didn’t answer. He stood looking down at the canyon. “Lon
ger than that, I think. Look,” Walker said, pointing downward with his chin.
Tag’s mouth fell open, and his big eyes grew even larger. The familiar canyon looked alien. No longer were there thick growths of juniper, ponderosa, pinyon pine, and Douglas fir trees covering the sides. Instead, rugged layers of multicolored limestone lay bare in the bright sun. Only small, squatty bunches of sage and cactus grew here and there. Even the cactus looked dry and parched. The air seemed different, too. It was cleaner, fresher, yet hotter and drier—harsher.
“Something is definitely wrong,” Tag stated. He sat down on the ledge, letting his long legs dangle down into midair.
Walker sat down next to Tag. “Not wrong, just different.”
The silence that followed was broken by the sound of a black raven’s screeching laugh. The mysterious feeling once again filled Walker. Goose bumps rose up all over his body.
“Walk time . . . Walk time,” it whispered.
Walker reached up and grasped the eagle pendant around his neck. Walk time. Náat had used those same words.
“Walk time,” whispered Walker, his eyes searching the canyon below.
“What?” asked Tag, turning to look at him. “Walk time?”
“Yes. We have walked time.” Seeing the look of bewilderment on Tag’s freckled face, Walker stood up. “Come on.” He turned and went back inside the cave.
“The shrine,” said Walker, pointing to the ledge above the pool. “When I came in, before the lightning hit, it was empty—abandoned. But look at it now.”
On the ledge next to the rock shrine stood a medium-sized, white ceramic bowl with black lightning-like designs on it. The bowl was about a third full of fine, white cornmeal. Next to the bowl lay two carved sticks tied together with a thin leather thong. Eagle feathers adorned the sticks.
“Wow! I was so busy trying to wake you up that I didn’t even notice the shrine. Hey! I’ve seen that bowl before. It’s one of the Sinagua pots in the display case at the Visitor Center. My Dad said it was a religious offering bowl of some kind. What is it doing here?”
“Making an offering,” answered Walker in a low tone.
Tag’s voice sounded nervous, “Who would do such a dumb thing?”
“The ones who built the shrine.”
“Look, that’s a prayer stick, isn’t it?” asked Tag, pointing to the wood-and-feather effigy beside the bowl.
Walker nodded, his eyes fastened on the paho in his own hand.
“Hey, you’ve got one almost like it!” exclaimed Tag. “Where did you . . .” Confusion spread across his freckled face. He put his hands on his waist. “What is going on here?”
“We have walked time back to the ancient ones,” Walker answered.
“You’re telling me that somehow we have been zapped back in time more than seven hundred years to the Sinagua’s time? Oh come on, get serious,” Tag said with a laugh. The strained sound echoed off the narrow walls of the cave and died. He shifted from one big foot to the other. “But how? Why?” he asked in almost a whisper.
“I’m not sure. The paho. The thunder and lightning. Magic.” Walker looked at Tag. “All I know is that I was sent here for a reason. ‘Do what must be done,’ my uncle said. At first I thought it was just to put the paho back.” Walker took a deep breath and held it a few seconds. “But now, I know there is more that must be done. And for some reason time is running out.”
“Just a minute. All of this is just too much. I don’t understand any of it!” Tag shouted. Shaking his head in disbelief, he stalked out of the cave.
Walker picked up the white piece of buckskin from where it had fallen on the cave floor. He carefully rewrapped the paho. Something deep inside told him that it was not the time to put it back on the shrine. Retrieving his backpack, he threw the flap open and looked inside. A piece of light brown buckskin met his eyes.
Unfolding the smooth, soft skin he realized it was a pair of leggings. Sewn down the outside seam of each leg was a line of small, white seashells. The narrow waist was tied with a thong of heavy leather. A new pair of soft, dark moccasins was wrapped inside.
Setting the clothes down, Walker reached in the pack and lifted out the last item. It was an old, cloth bag that flour had come in many years ago. A heavy piece of cotton string tied the bag closed. With care, he untied the string and looked into the two-thirds-full bag. His heart seemed to stop for an instant. Red cornmeal!
Tears pricked his eyes. His heart throbbed with grief. It was only yesterday morning that he had left a bowl of red cornmeal at Náat’s grave for his spirit to eat on its way to the house of the dead. Now, Náat had given him the food of the dead. Is this red meal for my grave? Will my spirit soon join yours at Maski?
The air suddenly became thick with the strange, haunting feeling. Walker closed his eyes, letting the strong sensation fill his mind.
“Do what must be done,” the feeling instructed.
A shiver raced up Walker’s spine, leaving his entire body shaking and cold.
“Taawa, guide me, your son,” prayed Walker, as he untied and pulled off his jogging shoes. After pulling off his red Dodger T-shirt and worn blue jeans, he picked up the leggings and pulled them on. They were a bit loose, but Walker tied the throng around his waist tightly. He reached down and slipped on the moccasins. They felt light and comfortable after the sneakers.
“Náat, did your old hands make these moccasins for me to walk time in?” whispered Walker. His hand reached up and touched the eagle pendant hanging on his bare chest. A warm, peaceful feeling began to fill him. “I will do what must be done,” he vowed, looking at the holy shrine.
Walker packed his shoes and clothes into the backpack. His eyes searched the floor of the cave until he saw his flashlight. He reached down and picked it up. Its beam still shone. Clicking it off, Walker placed it in the backpack next to his shoes. He slipped off his wrist watch and looked at it. It also had stopped at twelve o’clock. He slid it into the pack’s small side pocket. He put the bag of cornmeal and the paho on top of his clothes. Then he closed and buckled the backpack. He picked it up, took one last cold drink from the pool and left the cave.
Sitting down next to Tag on the ledge, Walker felt Tag’s eyes staring at his leggings and moccasins. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tag run his hands through his curly hair, shaking his head. Letting his hands fall to his side, Tag gazed down into the unknown canyon.
The minutes passed. A raven’s mocking caw filled the hot, dry air.
“Okay, Walker Talayesva. You had better explain everything. Start with how and why you came to the cave,” said Tag. His face was serious, but he looked ready to accept what seemed to be reality.
Walker explained that having no living parents, he had been raised by his uncle at Mishongnovi. Tears blurred his vision when he repeated his uncle’s dying words. Watching Walker’s face, Tag listened intently.
“So yesterday, I hitched a ride from Hopi to Flagstaff. I slept in the forest at the foot of the San Francisco Peaks last night. I caught another ride here this morning. I was just returning the prayer stick to the shrine when the lightning hit, and you rolled into the cave.”
Tag swung his legs slowly in the air. His eyes scrutinized the canyon below him. After about five minutes of silence, he turned to face Walker. “Well, Walker, you’ve walked time and I’ve just tagged along.” The giant grin spread across his freckled face. “At least we are living up to our names. Boy, would my Dad be envious. I sure hope I get to see him again to tell him all about it.”
“I hope you do, too, but I’m not sure what we’re going to find down there. I have a feeling it’s going to be dangerous. Maybe you should stay in the cave until I . . .”
“No way, buddy,” Tag said, standing up and brushing the dust off his blue jeans. “I’ll just keep tagging along with you. Excuse the pun.”
Walker laughed and stood up. “Well, whatever we find down there, one thing is for sure; the ancient ones won’t have pizza on every fire pit
.”
“Well, I guess it’s up to us to teach them how to make it.”
Walker answered, “I wish it were going to be that easy.”
5
Walker’s palms started to sweat as he watched Tag climb down the sheer face of the cliff. Tag was awkwardly balancing his long body as he lowered his right foot, trying to locate the next toehold. The tip of his left sneaker was wedged into a small crevice. His fingers clung to mere cracks in the limestone.
“It sure was easier climbing up to the cave than this climbing down,” Tag shouted to Walker, who was standing a good seven feet below him on the trail. “It seemed like the toe and finger grooves were dee—” Tag’s left shoe slipped out of its narrow footing. As he slid downward, his left knee scraped along the rugged rocks. His fingers fought to maintain their hold. His feet frantically felt for support. The toe of his right sneaker slid into a narrow crack, stopping his fall. He pressed his thin body into the cliff’s face.
“Were deeper,” Tag finished his sentence into the rock. Taking a breath, he looked down at Walker. “It just goes to shows how much erosion can take place in seven hundred years.”
Walker swallowed the fear in his throat. Grinning up at Tag, he cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “It just shows that you bahanas have feet too big for your own good.” His heart thumped as he watched Tag climb the rest of the way down.
“Are you sure you still want to come with me?” asked Walker, seeing Tag wipe the sweat from his freckled face.
“Anything is better than climbing up that cliff again,” answered Tag, looking up toward the cave. Turning to meet Walker’s eyes, he smiled. “Besides, after seven hundred years, I’m starved. Let’s go see what the Sinagua are having for lunch.”
Walker led the way back down the narrow path toward the main trail. The air was hot, dry, still. Except for the muffled sound of Walker’s moccasins and the dull thudding sound of Tag’s sneakers hitting the ground, the canyon was quiet.
Walker of Time Page 3
