Just ahead, two boys about ten years old were on their knees pulling weeds. As White Badger approached them, they continued to work, but their curious eyes darted quick glances at the approaching strangers.
“Your work is good,” White Badger said, kneeling down next to one of the boys. “No weed will steal water from your corn.” The boy smiled. White Badger stood up. The boy rose with him. The other boy moved closer to White Badger. “These are our visitors, Walker and Tag.”
Tag grinned and reached out to shake. Walker groaned inside. The boys stared at the large, freckled, outstretched hand. One stepped back a few inches. The other one looked as if he might bolt away any second. Tag’s grin faded. He lowered his hand, letting it hang limply at his side. The awkward situation ended when White Badger called each boy by name, asking about their families and their needs. They answered his questions in turn. White Badger listened, as he did to the men of the village, with honest interest and concern. The boys’ fear seemed to melt away.
In the next terrace, corn and beans were planted in a zigzagged fashion. Looking at the scraggly plants, Walker knew that this year’s harvest would be very small. Even if heavy rains came soon, it would not help much, as it was too late in the growing season.
Four men were working in the next terrace among small squash plants. Each worked with a stone hoe to clear and deepen the water catches around each plant. When the group walked into the terrace, three of the men put down their tools and moved toward them. The fourth man, whom Walker recognized as one of Gray Wolf’s men, continued working, but he kept his eyes on the group.
White Badger spoke to each man by name, introducing them to the boys. Tag nodded and smiled, his hands hanging at his sides. Walker met each man’s eyes with friendly frankness. The men began to discuss what needed to be done in this field. Walker became aware that the fourth man had moved within a few feet of them. He was listening to what was being said as he hoed the catch bowl of a wilted squash plant. He was a small man with a very broad nose.
“Fast Lizard,” White Badger said, turning to the man, “do you think that the water catches need to be redug in the far east fields?”
Fast Lizard’s hardened eyes softened. Taking long steps toward the group, he answered, “Yes. But the corn just north of it needs to be weeded first.”
“You are right. It will be started today. How is your son? Has he taken his first steps yet?” White Badger asked with a smile.
Fast Lizard’s eyes brightened. “Yes, I am afraid that my wife will have little rest now.” Everyone chuckled. All tension in the air was blown away.
By the time the sun stood high in the sky, they had visited seven other large, terraced fields along the rim of the canyon. Each one was the same: well cared for, yet dying from the lack of water. Walker and Tag were introduced to each man and boy working in the fields. Walker could see that White Badger had the same talent of winning people’s confidence that his sister, Flute Maiden, had shown. He was a man whom these ancient farmers respected and trusted as their Warrior Chief and friend.
When the sun stood directly overhead, all the men gathered together to eat under a large sun shade at the very edge of the canyon. The sun shade’s frame consisted of four tall poles standing in the ground. For its roof, more long poles were strapped together, and dried branches were placed over them to provide shade. Its four sides were open, and breeze came out of the canyon, fanning the hot men.
“Boy, am I starved,” exclaimed Tag, “and thirsty.” He plopped down next to Walker and Scar Cheek. “Great picnic spot,” he said looking up at the sun shade. “Hope the potato salad is fresh.”
While cracking and eating handfuls of pinyon nuts, the twenty-five or so men and boys visited with each other. Walker sat listening and watching each face. With hunger in their stomachs and worry in their voices, they discussed the lack of rain and the poor hunting. Gradually the conversation turned to their aging chief, Lone Eagle, and his expected return. White Badger skillfully swayed the discussion to the good hunting of the years past.
With subtle humor, the men began swapping unbelievable tales of huge bears, enormous deer, giant turkeys, and monstrous rabbits. In a low voice, Walker interpreted each story to Tag. Tag’s eyes grew large with wonder and amusement as he listened spellbound. Walker could tell that the men were enjoying seeing the bahana’s reactions, and each saga became more unbelievable than the last. The men’s suspicions and fear of the two strangers began to crumble under the sounds of laughter.
After eating, all the men worked together in one especially large field that had been terraced into six sections. Dividing into small groups, they worked together weeding and repairing the catch bowls.
Wiping the sweat from his eyes, Walker sat back on his knees to watch his friend, some ten feet away. Tag was working with the first two young boys they had met that morning. They were all kneeling around a plant. Tag and one of the boys were weeding while the third worked on the catch bowl. The three seemed to be communicating through a strange mixture of words, grunts, and some sort of sign language. Every few minutes, their laughter filled the air.
Tag must be telling them some of his hunting stories, thought Walker, turning his attention to a stubborn weed clinging to the ground. Pulling at the base of the weed with a twist, Walker whispered, “This one’s roots must go down at least a foot. Why are there always weeds, even when there isn’t enough water for the corn to grow?” The weed came out in his hand with a quick jerk. Walker almost fell backward. Catching himself, he snorted. This was the worst part of farming. He had always hated weeding. He chuckled. I’m fighting a seven-hundred year-old war against weeds! he thought, throwing the weed as far as he could. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he scanned the scene before him.
Scar Cheek, along with ten other men, was in an area at the far side of the field. White Badger and the remaining workers were busy just a few yards away. The noise of stone hoes scratching at hardened, parched soil mingled with the sound of busy voices. The harsh cawing of a raven broke through the hot air. Voices died as everyone listened to the mocking laugh of the great bird. Abruptly silence filled the fields. A second later the large, black bird glided overhead, casting its eerie shadow on the dying crops.
A new, more assuring song filled the air. Starting out low where White Badger worked, it grew as each man and boy joined in the deep, throaty song. Walker recognized the rhythm of the song. The words were a bit different from the ones the Hopi farmers sang in their corn fields. Yet these words spoke the same plea for plentiful rain to raise the heads of each plant. Walker hummed the tune as he worked on another weed. He was filled with the same strong brotherly bond that he had felt at home among the Hopi men working in their fields.
Out of the corner of his eye, movement caught his attention. The skin on his back crawled. Looking up, Walker saw Gray Wolf and three armed men standing at the edge of the field. He felt their eyes on him. The smell of rotting flesh played in the hot breeze.
Tag groaned, easing himself down on his sleeping mat. Even in the dim light of Great Owl’s home, Walker could see Tag’s face wince in pain. “A bit stiff and sore,” he stated, watching his friend, from his own mat.
“Why would I be? I only weeded the ancient ones’ entire corn crop today,” quipped Tag, rubbing the back of his aching calves. His stomach growled. “Quiet,” he said, pressing on his belly. He stretched himself out on the yucca mat, closing his eyes.
Only a few inches from him, Walker studied his face. A single tear rolled out from under the bahana’s long eyelashes and started to slide down the freckled cheek. Walker’s heart tightened. “I miss my home, too,” he said in a warm voice.
With his eyes still closed, Tag quickly wiped away the tear. He sniffed and took a deep breath. He opened his eyes. Looking into Walker’s sympathetic face, he said, “I guess I am a little homesick. Sometimes I think that I will probably never see my mom and dad again.” His stomach rumbled. “Or eat pizza!”
Wa
lker nodded his head in Understanding but remained quiet. His warm eyes encouraged Tag to go on.
“I really do like it here. The ancient ones are so, so—oh, I don’t know. They are so much like the people seven hundred years from now. They laugh, cry, love, and worry about their kids just like my parents do—or did.” Tag blinked to clear away the tears glistening in his eyes.
Walker nodded. He knew what Tag was saying was true.
“I guess all people are basically the same no matter when or where you are.” Tag chuckled. “You know I always wanted a kid brother just like Small Cub.” Tag pushed up on one elbow. “If I ever do get back home, I am going to talk to my parents about that,” he sounded very determined.
Walker laughed. “Great Owl reminds me a lot of my uncle. If I close my eyes while he is talking, I can’t really tell if it is Great Owl or Náat speaking.” He felt tears stinging his eyes.
Silence.
“What’s going to happen to these people, Walker? Their crops are dying. There’s hardly any water to drink.”
“There isn’t enough wood around to burn this winter for warmth,” added Walker. His chest felt heavy, as if a fifty-pound bag of worry had been placed on it.
“And as my mom would say, the sanitation facilities are far from the best. Maybe that’s why there is so much sickness among them. How much longer can they survive here?” Tag asked, lying back down again with another groan.
Walker shrugged his shoulders. Gray Wolf’s face, twisted with hatred, burst into his mind. “How much longer can we survive here?” he said flatly.
Silence.
“Well, maybe the new chief will like us and want to keep us around a while. Hey!” Tag shot back up. “We didn’t meet Lone Eagle’s son. So he must be with his father.”
“I don’t think so,” Walker answered. Suddenly he felt very weary. “I got the distinct impression from the men today that he’s not with Lone Eagle. In fact, no one seems to know where he is.”
19
The canyon’s rim was bathed in a grayish predawn light. With long, silent strides White Badger and Walker worked their way eastward along the rim. White Badger followed a path among the rocks, cacti, and sage brush. Long bows were slung over their shoulders. Quivers of arrows hung next to the stone knives at their waists. Carved, wooden rabbit-hunting sticks lay ready in their right hands.
Growling, Walker’s stomach began to wake up. They had left the security of Great Owl’s home without food, stopping only to offer prayers with their fast. They had started up out of the darkened canyon with only the moonlight illuminating their way.
Waves of long, thin, pewter-colored clouds outlined the eastern horizon. As the sun’s rays struck the clouds, they turned pink, then burst into a brilliant red within a matter of seconds. Walker stopped, watching the beautiful transformation. His heart was filled with the beauty and peace that he felt around him.
“It’s a good sign,” White Badger stated in a whisper. “Our prayers will be answered this day.”
By the time the sun lay just above the horizon, White Badger had led Walker to where the canyon walls converged. Looking down into the canyon, Walker saw the sun’s rays crawling down the sheer cliffs, casting eerie, fingerlike shadows. It was as if some great power was taking the canyon into its grip. A shiver crept up Walker’s back. Is this a sign, too?
In awhile they were hiking along the rim on the opposite side of the canyon. White Badger started traveling westward, away from the barren and rocky rim. A thin, brown rabbit with enormous ears darted out from behind a rock. Its long legs leaped over the brush and cacti in its path. Before Walker could react, he heard a whirring sound. White Badger’s rabbit stick hurled toward the rabbit, striking it in the head. In midleap the rabbit slumped to the ground, its neck broken.
As Walker approached the dead creature, his heart pounded with both pity for the rabbit and gladness that there would be meat to eat.
“Another good sign,” said White Badger, stooping down to pick up the rabbit. “The gods have heard our prayers.” With a smile, he put his hand over his growling stomach. “And our bellies.”
An hour later there were four more rabbits in the woven bag tied to White Badger’s wide, leather waistband. Walker was impressed at White Badger’s skill with the rabbit-hunting stick. The stick was about two feet long and about four inches thick. One end of it had been carved into a handle that fit snugly into White Badger’s hand. It was painted brown, with a panel of white on each end. Inside the white panels were symbols of rabbits painted in black.
Walker was accustomed to such weapons. As had most young Hopi boys, he, too, had hunted with a rabbit stick. He could still vividly remember the day he had turned five years old and Náat had presented him with his first hunting stick.
“Now you must learn to hunt,” Náat had said, putting the weapon in Walker’s eager hand. That first rabbit stick had been small and had fit perfectly in his chubby hand. It, too, had been brown and white. Pointing to the black rabbit designs painted on the ends of the stick, Náat explained, “The rabbit spirits drawn here will call to our brothers the rabbit. If you hunt with a pure heart and happy thoughts, brother rabbit will hear these spirits calling him. Then it will come out of its burrow to see who is summoning it and our cooking pot will never be empty.”
Hour after hour under Náat’s firm supervision, Walker practiced with his rabbit stick. The stick was heavy and hard to throw, but soon Walker’s arm grew strong enough to hurl it a good distance. Náat had insisted that he continue to practice long after all the other small boys grew tired and went to play other games. Walker’s quickness and aim became much better than those of others his age. By the time he was seven years old, their cooking pot was never empty. However, it had been a good while since Walker had used his adult-size rabbit stick.
Now Walker saw a quick, hopping movement out of the corner of his eye. Just as fast, Walker brought his body around. With a powerful flick of his wrist, he caught the creature in midair with the stick he had borrowed from Son of Great Bear, bringing it down.
Examining the dead game, White Badger exclaimed, “This one is so fat, it will help fill two pots. You are in tune with Son of Great Bear’s stick now.”
Walker nodded with a smile. “Each weapon has its own spirit—its own way,” he said, repeating the words he had heard his uncle say many times.
“I have not seen this many rabbits for many moons. Our prayers are indeed being answered this day,” White Badger said, putting the kill in his bag. “If we see bigger game, let us hope that we are both in tune with our bows. My people have not tasted venison for many moons.”
“Fresh venison would be great,” Walker agreed, touching the beautifully carved bow hanging on his shoulder. Last evening, when Great Owl had placed it in his hands, his heart had jumped into his throat. The bow was identical to the one that Náat had so painstakingly carved for him when he was ten years old. The carefully painted animal designs matched those on his bow at home, and lifting the bow, Walker had discovered that even its weight and balance felt the same in his hand. The haunting feeling had washed over his body in a great wave.
Warm memories of the many hours spent with Náat learning to use his bow had filled Walker’s swimming head. He had felt Náat’s strong, loving arms around his shoulders as he taught Walker to aim properly. He had heard Náat’s words of so long ago: “With the rabbit stick you will fill the cooking pot. With such a bow, you shall . . .” These vivid memories had been shattered and dissolved by Tag’s worried voice calling him back to the present.
Now in the hot midmorning sun, as he walked beside White Badger, the words again echoed in Walker’s mind. “With such a bow you shall . . .” What was the last part? He tried to remember all the words that Náat had said that day many years ago. Another rabbit leaped out three feet in front of them. Two hunting sticks whirled through the air. Walker’s stick hit the rabbit. White Badger’s stick flew a mere inch over the falling animal’s head.
“I think we should turn back now,” White Badger said, putting the last rabbit in the bag. “I don’t think it is wise to be away from the village very long.” Patting the bag, his eyes twinkled. “These will flavor many stew pots tonight.”
Walker chuckled. “I am sure Tag will appreciate having rabbit stew.”
As they retraced their steps, the two talked. Walker felt at ease with White Badger. Their words flowed like smooth water and refreshed his weary mind. He found himself telling White Badger about his people so far away. He described his village, leaving out the twentieth-century inventions and luxuries that White Badger would not comprehend. White Badger listened intently, accepting everything that was said. The minutes passed quickly. Walker felt the bond between them grow stronger with each step. Was White Badger the one he should teach first about the Kachinas living so near on the sacred mountain? Walker found himself wondering. He felt sure that White Badger would listen with an open heart and mind.
“My throat is as dry as the ground we walk on,” said White Badger as he stopped and wiped the sweat from his face.
“Mine, too,” agreed Walker. He untied the leather thong across his chest that held a ceramic canteen about the size and shape of a large cucumber. The thong threaded through circular handles near each rounded end of the canteen. It was white with bold, black wave designs in a style that Walker had seen often on Hopi pottery. The canteen was capable of carrying almost half a quart of water. Walker handed it to White Badger. “You made the first kill.”
With the canteen resting in one hand, White Badger pulled the carved wooden stopper out of the narrow opening at the top of the canteen with his other hand. Holding a rounded end in each hand, White Badger brought the canteen to his lips. “You made the last.” He closed his eyes and drank deeply.
As he waited for his turn, Walker scanned the horizon. The sun beat down directly overhead, leaving no shadows. Everything looked flat, harsh, unreal, like a painted backdrop on a stage. His eyes skipped right past the large, still, brown shape twelve feet to the east. Then something in his mind clicked. His eyes backtracked. His heart began pounding in his ears.
Walker of Time Page 12
