Walker of Time

by Helen Hughes Vick

  When Walker reached the last notch, his head was about four inches below the top of the limestone slab, his back rubbing against it. He stretched his head around the edge of the crevice and looked up. The natural shaft was about six feet deep and three feet wide. Forty-five feet above him, Walker saw the bottom of Scar Cheek’s feet climb over the top edge of the cliff.

  He looked down at Tag. “You okay?”

  Tag nodded. “Pretty ingenious, I have to admit. Great defensive planning, to say the least,” he added, pulling himself up to the second set of toeholds.

  “Wait till you see what comes next,” Walker exclaimed, swinging his body into the crevice. On the left side of the crevice, notches had again been chiseled out of the limestone. Walker realized that the crevice was so deep and narrow that it would be almost impossible for anyone on the ground to see him climbing up.

  Even with the deep toeholds, scaling up the sheer cliff took all of Walker’s strength and concentration. Hot air blasted into the crevice. Sweat ran down his body in little streams. He heard a raven’s mocking cry as he carefully inched upward. Resting, he turned his head to look out of the limestone ravine. The cloudless, blue sky seemed harsh. The canyon’s cliffs were hostile.

  “Great Taawa, guide us, your sons, in this time of long ago. Help us to find harmony with the people of this canyon. Guide our minds and hearts,” Walker prayed, starting up the cliff again. “And our feet.”

  He heard Tag following below. “I can’t believe I’m doing this!”

  Looking up, Walker could see the top of the crevice. Scar Cheek’s square face appeared over the edge, staring down at him. Walker felt the hair on his neck stand on end. As Walker lifted himself up onto the last toehold, Scar Cheek’s hand reached down toward him.

  If he lets go, Walker’s mind raced, the ancient ones won’t have to worry about any witches. He looked up into the black eyes above him. They were filled with apprehension toward a stranger as well as concern for another human being. Walker had seen this same look hundreds of times in the eyes of his Hopi people.

  Stretching up, Walker grasped Scar Cheek’s broad hand. With amazing strength, Scar Cheek lifted Walker up and over the edge of the crevice.

  Scrambling to his feet, Walker said, “Brother, thank you.”

  Scar Cheek nodded, turned, and crouched down, reaching over the edge again. Tag came flopping out of the crevice like a fish being hauled onto shore. His sweaty face was flushed. He sat panting on the dusty ground. He smiled up at Scar Cheek. “Walker, please tell him thank you for me,” Tag said, struggling to his feet.

  “Vaava, kwa kwa,” Walker told Scar Cheek.

  Scar Cheek grunted, turned, and started up another narrow path among clumps of dry beeweed, yucca cactus, and boulders. Walker turned to Tag. Shrugging his shoulders, he said, “Come on.”

  Within minutes, Walker heard noisy excitement. The sounds of nervous men explaining, worried women questioning, and anxious children whinnying reminded him of his Hopi village. He had heard this same kind of commotion each time something dangerous or strange had occurred in his village.

  A small, dark face with jackrabbit eyes peered out at him from behind a boulder. Another round face with curious eyes under a curtain of long, straight bangs peeked out from the other side of the boulder. Walker winked at them. The frightened faces disappeared.

  The path curved around a large outcrop of limestone. Walker saw a group of women huddled together at the entrance of a cliff dwelling. They were dressed in skirts and mantles similar to the ones Flute Maiden wore. One woman clutched a wooden cradle board with a tiny, sleeping infant strapped inside. Two small, identical, naked children hid behind the legs of the pretty woman in the center. Their thin faces peeked around their mother’s legs. The last woman held a large, white, ceramic water jug on her hip. The women stopped whispering to each other, lowering their eyes to the ground. Walking past them, Walker felt fear in the air.

  The face of a young girl appeared at the entrance of the next rock house. “Come away from the door. They are witches!” exclaimed a harsh voice from within. The girl’s curious face vanished.

  Gray Wolf had wasted no time in spreading the word about witches. Of course, such news would always travel like the wind, thought Walker. They passed three more clusters of rock dwellings, each with women and children around them. Walker realized that he had not seen any men. Were they all with Great Owl? Waiting for us! Walker thought, with fear tightening his stomach. He turned to look at Tag.

  Tag’s eyes were like bowling balls gawking at the ancient ones. Walker frowned and shook his head. “It is rude even for a witch to stare so hard,” he whispered in a firm voice.

  A man with a long, yellow cape that came down to his knees rushed out of a dwelling. With a lopsided limp, he hurried up to Scar Cheek. The man’s words came in quick, excited spurts. “Scar Cheek, the others are at the meeting place.” he exclaimed. His dark eyes darted back at Walker and Tag. “You must hurry. Gray Wolf is trying to . . .”

  Scar Cheek touched the man’s shoulder and mumbled something to him. With a nod, the man limped down the path in the opposite direction and disappeared into a dwelling.

  Turning to Walker, Scar Cheek stated, “We must hurry.” He started up a path wedged between two cliff dwellings.

  “Why do I feel as if I am about to be put on trial?” Tag asked, following close on Walker’s heels.

  The hair on Walker’s scalp tightened as a shiver raced up his back. “Because you are.”

  10

  The rocky path wound up to the top of the long limestone overhang under which some of the homes were built. Then it traversed the overhang for two hundred yards. It climbed again at a very steep grade till it reached the rim of the canyon. Here the path ended at a narrow, limestone bridge with sheer drop-offs on each side. The well-worn limestone spanned a good five feet to a broad ridge extending out from the canyon’s rim.

  “The fort! They’re taking us to one of the forts!” exclaimed Tag upon reaching the natural bridge. “The forts were built on top of wide, flat promontories like big islands that jutted out from the rim. There were five in all, each built directly above a different group of ruins—I mean homes,” stated Tag, sounding like a tour guide. Walker stopped to listen. “Grave robbers and pot hunters had pretty well destroyed the areas before any real studies could be done. Dad said no one was sure what the forts had been used for.” Pointing to the steep cliffs surrounding the ridge in front of them, Tag continued. “Since there is only one way into and out of each island, the forts could have been built for protection. Or they could have been used for ceremonial purposes. They are—or they were—in restricted areas, so the tourist couldn’t get to them. But my Dad took me to one once. I’m not sure if this is the same one or not. It all looks so different.”

  “Shh,” hissed Scar Cheek from the other side of the short bridge where he stood waiting for them. He motioned for them to hurry.

  “All right, all right, we’re coming,” Tag answered with a perturbed sound to his voice.

  Walker realized that Tag still did not understand the gravity of the situation. How could he? All his life he had lived in an advanced, complex society with an intricate legal system that guaranteed liberty and justice to all. Walker’s hands were wet. His stomach twisted in knots. Here, he thought, taking a deep breath to calm his thundering heart, one person can have the power of life or death.

  Crossing over the limestone bridge, Walker saw an eight-foot-tall rock wall. Guarding the only entrance into the wall were two of Gray Wolf’s men. Walking toward them, he felt their eyes glaring at him, and as he passed by them, the smell of death filled his nose.

  As Walker stepped inside the entrance, the haunting feeling shot through him, and he swayed slightly. He stopped short, every nerve in his body taut. Blinking his eyes, he tried to focus on what he saw.

  The high, thick wall followed the contour of the triangular-shaped island. Ten rock dwellings were built along the insi
de of the protective wall. They were small shelters with no windows and unusually low, narrow T-shaped doors. Walker realized that they were not used for daily living.

  In the middle of the enclosed island, about fifty armed men sat on the ground. They were in four neat rows with their backs toward the entrance. All faced a stagelike platform made of rocks mortared with mud. It was about three feet high, five feet deep, and ten feet long.

  The breath caught in Walker’s throat. He felt his eyes widen. A stone shrine stood in the center of the platform. It was almost identical to the shrines found in the Hopi’s sacred underground ceremonial rooms called kivas.

  The ancient ones’ shrine stood about three and half feet off the ground. Its limestone slabs had been skillfully cut and mortared together to form a perfect two-foot-by-two-foot square with a flat top. A steplike shelf ran along the bottom of the shrine. Brightly colored prayer sticks adorned the shelf. Offerings made to what gods? wondered Walker.

  At his next thought, a cold shiver ran through Walker’s body. Was there a small hole dug into the top of the platform about six inches from the base of the shrine? Walker’s mind raced; his heart hammered. Such a hole, which the Hopi called a “sipápu,” would mean that the ancient ones believed in the same creation story as the Hopi—a story that told how all peoples of the world had emerged into this world from just such a sipápu at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. How many other beliefs and traditions did these ancient people share with his people? Walker wondered, forcing his eyes to leave the stone shrine.

  Gray Wolf stood on the right side of the shrine, his legs firmly planted. His arms were folded across his chest. His thin lips were pulled across his sharp teeth in a snarl.

  White Badger stood on the left side of the rock shrine. Walker could see tension in his body, but his strong face was controlled. His eyes moved over the crowd of men. He seemed to be making eye contact with each man as if to determine those that would follow him or be swayed by Gray Wolf.

  Walker felt all eyes on him as he followed Scar Cheek, who was threading his way through the seated men. He tried to keep his back tall, his shoulders squared, his eyes aimed at Scar Cheek’s long, black hair. His heart pounded in his throat; the sound echoed in his ears.

  Great Taawa guide my thoughts, my words . . . Walker prayed.

  He heard murmuring rippling through the crowd. “Witches . . . Two hearted . . . Snake charmers . . . Death!” The whispering grew like a great wave, growing more intense until it echoed off the canyon walls.

  Scar Cheek stopped a few feet from the platform but motioned for the boys to continue. Walker advanced, Tag at his side. Stopping a foot from the base of the platform, Walker looked over at Tag. He stood tall and proud, but his freckles seemed to dance on his pale face. Small beads of sweat dotted his forehead. His fists were drawn up into tight balls. For an instant, their eyes met. In Tag’s eyes, Walker saw the fear that he himself felt. He tried to smile, but his lips felt frozen.

  Walker turned his head to the platform, searching the ground in front of the shrine. Six inches from the base of the shrine, he could just barely see the top of a small hole. A sipápu! Walker’s knees felt weak.

  Walker sensed Gray Wolf’s eyes staring at him. He looked up to meet Gray Wolf’s contemptuous yet pleased glare. If there had not been so much commotion, Walker was sure he would be able to hear him growling.

  White Badger raised his spear in the air. A strained hush fell over the gathered men. White Badger’s voice held authority when he spoke. “Great Owl, our Seer, has been told all concerning these strangers. Now he will see into their hearts.”

  Flute Maiden was climbing up the stairs on the left side of the platform. A man, stooped with age, leaned on her arm. He climbed each step one at a time. Walker could not see the man’s face. He wore a tight skullcap, decorated with thousands of small, colorful beads that glistened like a rainbow. Long, thin, snow-colored hair flowed down his stooped back. He wore a brilliant red, knee-length kilt, decorated with small, white shells. A fist-sized clam shell, studded with small, square pieces of turquoise, dangled on a leather thong around his thin neck. In his gnarled left hand was a long wooden staff. Walker could see intricate designs and lines carved into the thick staff. A calendar of some sort? wondered Walker.

  Without warning, the mysterious feeling raged through every cell in Walker’s body. Great Owl, Great Owl, the words swirled in Walker’s mind. His eyes clamped shut, and his throat tightened in fear. He fought through the haunting feeling to get his breath. Struggling, he opened his eyes.

  Great Owl stood in front of the shrine between Gray Wolf and White Badger. Leaning on his staff, he stared down at Walker. Never before had Walker seen such eyes. They were large, soft, brown pools of light that seemed to be able to penetrate deep into one’s soul—or gaze into the most distant future.

  Great Owl turned his eyes toward the freckled bahana. His thin lips formed in a straight line across his deeply wrinkled face. Walker saw his eyes twinkle as he looked down at Tag’s freckled face and curly hair. Walker thought he heard a soft chuckle when Great Owl’s eyes stared down at Tag’s skinny legs.

  “Tell us what you see, old man,” Gray Wolf’s voice snarled.

  Great Owl’s strong, smooth voice answered, “I see two thirsty mouths and two very empty stomachs.”

  Gray Wolf lurched toward Great Owl, his fists clenched at his waist. “They are witches!”

  Great Owl raised his staff at Gray Wolf, meeting his cold eyes. “I see two brave young men who risked their lives to save one of our women. I also see that they receive accusations and threats instead of welcome and thanks.”

  “Look deeper, old man,” growled Gray Wolf. His face was twisted with anger. He jerked his body around, glaring into the crowd. Raising his spear, he screamed, “They are witches! They will destroy all of us!”

  Great Owl’s voice came like lightning. “I see Gray Wolf is afraid to accept the truth because the truth is not in harmony with his desire to seize power for himself.”

  The air was hot, quiet—thick with tension. Gray Wolf’s body trembled with rage as he stared into Great Owl’s stolid face. Great Owl’s eyes seemed to sear into Gray Wolf’s soul. Walker sensed that everyone present was holding his breath just as he was.

  Gray Wolf’s shoulders began to slump. His eyes broke away. With a quick turn, he jumped off the platform and stormed out through the crowd. A few men stood up and followed him out of the wall’s entrance.

  Tag let out a long, deep breath. Walker looked over at him. He could tell that Tag more or less understood what had just happened.

  “What is to be done with these strangers?” someone in the gathering called.

  Great Owl held up his staff. It shook in his old hand. “What should have been done in the first place; welcome and feed these young men.” He lowered his arm. “They will stay at my home until our chief returns from his pilgrimage to the sacred mountain.” Great Owl leaned on his staff for support. He looked tired, but his voice was strong. He gazed down into Walker’s eyes. “When Lone Eagle returns, all that must be done will be done.”

  Lone Eagle . . . Lone Eagle . . . death . . . The haunting feeling swept through Walker’s body. His knees swayed under him. His heart felt as if it had stopped.

  11

  The water was warm, but it soothed Walker’s parched throat. He lowered the cup, made from a dried gourd. The fist-size, smooth gourd was still half full, and he was still thirsty. He knew that each precious drop of water had been carried up the steep canyon from the stream of water at the bottom. For as long as he could remember, he had hauled heavy water jugs up the high mesa to his home each day. He knew well the price paid in sweat for even such a small amount of water.

  Walker passed the half-full gourd to Tag, who was sitting crossed-legged next him. In two large, noisy gulps, Tag drained the remaining water. Flute Maiden moved forward with a reddish-orange ceramic water jug and refilled the cup. With a smile, Tag guzzled down the seco
nd cup of water. Of course, Tag had never carried water any further than from the kitchen sink, Walker realized, watching the bahana drain the cup for a third time. Here it will be different.

  Walker looked around Great Owl’s mud-and-rock home. They sat a foot or so from the doorway on woven yucca mats in a semicircle facing the center of the home. The room was about fifteen feet long and eight feet deep. Even with a small cooking fire burning in the back of the room next to the limestone wall, the air was cool and dry. Smoke from the fire curled up the back wall, drifted along the rock ceiling and out the three air holes made in the stone wall above the T-shaped door.

  Flute Maiden’s and White Badger’s older sister, Morning Flower, knelt by the smoky fire. Her intelligent eyes darted from her cooking to the men as she stirred something in a medium-sized gray pot. She was about twenty and looked a lot like Flute Maiden. Unlike her sister, Morning Flower seemed extremely shy. Walker wondered if this was because she was self-conscious about her body being swollen huge with pregnancy. Or was she just naturally withdrawn and timid? She did not live here with her father, Great Owl, but next door in her own home with her husband. Where was her husband? Walker wondered with a sudden uneasiness.

  Morning Flower’s young son, Small Cub, sat close to her. He was a friendly four-year-old with straight bangs and long blue-black hair that framed his quick-to-smile, square face. He wore nothing but a leather thong around his neck. A small white shell hung from the narrow thong. His large, curious, black eyes stared at them, his mouth shaped in a half-moon smile.

  Walker studied the cooking area. Three fat, knee-high, plain ceramic jars of different shapes lined the back corner of the cooking pit. Each jar had a thin sheet of leather tied around its large opening. He guessed that at least one of these containers stored dried corn that would be ground into cornmeal for cooking. The other jars might hold such things as pinyon nuts, acorns, walnuts, and pumpkin or squash seeds. Or perhaps they contained dried foods such as beans, prickly pear fruit, or yucca banana fruit. Walker knew that whatever was in the storage containers depended on what had been successfully grown or gathered from nature. These three jars would hold only enough food to feed Great Owl’s family for a few weeks at the most. They must have other food storage nearby, Walker surmised. From all that he had seen of the canyon so far, he doubted very much that the ancient ones’ storage rooms contained enough food for the coming winter.