Tag Against Time (4 page)

Tag crawled out of Great Owl's home. The sun beat down into the canyon, casting oppressive shadows across its steep walls and ledges. Sweat trickled into his eyes.

I must be the only human being around for a hundred miles and five hundred years
. Tag studied Great Owl's house and was glad that he came. His first stop in time had been productive, mentally cataloging what the ancient ones left behind. He had plenty to report to his dad.

If I ever make it back to him
. The thought deepened Tag's loneliness.
At least everything is safe here for now. I'll just
 . . .

The sound of shattering ceramic ware resonated through the stillness of the canyon. Somewhere close by, a deep, gravely voice called in a garble of fast-flowing words. A high, nasal voice responded with anger, followed by another crash of pottery. Tag's heart stopped. His ears strained to understand the alien words ringing through the sweltering air. The voices came closer. The hair on Tag's
neck stood on end. It wasn't English or the ancient ones' language he heard.

Fear catapulted Tag. His feet stumbled over each other, and he landed with a thud just outside Great Owl's door. Before he could get up, a shrill, piercing third voice called somewhere to his left. The Gravel Voice answered up the path to the right.

I'm surrounded!
Tag leaped up. The voices calling back and forth, were coming towards him. He scrambled through Great Owl's low doorway, smacking his head against the top of the doorway.

Stay calm
, Tag's mind ordered his thundering heart. He crouched behind a large storage pot. The voices, muted through the four-foot-thick walls, called back and forth. They sounded like they were down the path from Great Owl's house. Who were they? From the sound of their language, they were Indian, but not modern day Hopi or Navajo, with which Tag was familiar. He pressed tighter against the pot. What were they doing here? Searching for food? Looting?

Times must be really tough if they are willing to get near the abandoned houses
. He knew most Southwest Indian cultures traditionally avoided places of the dead for fear of evil spirits or witches.

Shrill Voice called right outside the door.
They're going to have a Powwow on Great Owl's doorstep
. Tag's heart rammed against his throat.
Think. There's got to be a way out. What would Walker do?

Tag slithered across the room on his belly. Reaching the doorway, he peered out. A thin, dark-skinned man stood in the middle of the path. A good three inches shorter than Tag, he wore a scant loincloth. Loops of shells dangled from his
ears. A long, wooden bow hung from his left shoulder. Anger replaced Tag's fear. The small ceramic canteen suspended from the man's other shoulder belonged to Smallest Star! There was another crash of pottery. It sounded like it was one of the huge storage jars used for dried corn.

The man on the path screamed a shrill array of words. Tag pulled himself away from the door as Nasal Voice answered close by.

Okay, now what?
It would only be a matter of minutes before one of them came in. What could he use to defend himself against three muscular men from another age? He looked around. Great Owl and White Badger had taken away all their bows, spears, and knives.

Knives!
Tag reached for the small stone knife wedged in his waistband. Arrow Maker, the village stone-knapper, had given it to him. His hope faded as he clutched it.
It's sharp, but useless against three strong men. I have nothing else but the clothes on my back
 . . .

“Things are dangerous here for strangers, and right now you'd look pretty strange to the ancient ones.” Walker's once-spoken words whirled through Tag's mind, giving him an idea.

Tag slid away from the door and pulled off the canvas backpack. He fumbled it open, put the paho on the ground next to his leather loincloth, yanked out Walker's blue jeans, red Dodger T-shirt, and jogging shoes.
Nothing compared to hitech horror movie costumes in the future—hope these guys don't go to the movies a lot
. Walker's metal pencil-sized flashlight clanked to the ground.
Too bad it isn't dark, then I'd really scare the loincloths off them
. Tag shoved it back in the pack along with the paho.

Shrill Voice and Nasal Voice now prattled just outside the doorway. If only they would just stay out for a few more seconds, Tag thought. Gravel Voice joined them.

Just keep talking—have your high level executive meeting
. Tag wrenched Walker's blue jeans onto his head. The legs dangled down over his shoulders like lop ears. He remembered Walker saying his clothes would come in handy sometime. Tag smiled.
How right you were, Walker
. He draped the loincloth over his own blue jeans. Tag tied Walker's shoelaces together. Slipping the pack onto his back, partially covering his hot-pink T-shirt, he chuckled.
A hump-backed witch!
But would it work? Fear knotted his stomach.
Great Taawa please, let these guys be superstitious
.

Tag crept to the doorway. The three men stood talking just a foot away. Nasal and Gravel Voice, dressed in garb similar to Shrill Voice's, were also short and thin, but muscular. Gravel Voice was proudly showing a small, decorated basket to the others.

That's Singing Woman's basket
. Tag's anger burst into flame smothering his fear. He leaped out of the door. “You rotten thieves!”

The men swung around. Tag lunged at them. High over his head, he swung the jogging shoes like hunting bolos while waving the red shirt in his other hand. Pant legs flapped around his head. “Get out of here, you vultures!” Tag ran toward Gravel Voice whirling the shoes at him.

Gravel Voice's eyes grew huge staring up at the tall, hump-backed, blue-legged, pink-chested, speckle-faced, floppy-eared, big-footed spirit flying towards him. Dropping the basket, he jumped backward and toppled out of sight over the steep ledge.

Tag changed directions and charged the other two. They were already racing down the path. “Leave my friends' things alone you scavengers!” He chased them a few yards, howling and shrieking, with pant legs flapping, jogging shoes whirling, and Dodger shirt waving.

Nasal Voice looked over his shoulder. Tag hurled the shoes. They soared, twisting and turning like an uncoordinated bird, and hit Nasal Voice in the head. He screeched. Sprinting faster, he vanished around a sharp twist in the path.

Tag jerked to a stop. “Keep going you cowards! Don't come back or else I'll, I'll . . .”

What would he do? What could he do if the men suddenly found the courage to turn and face him? Tag spun around in a cloud of dust. A pant leg smacked him in the face. He tore back up the path in the opposite direction.

Tag jumped over pieces of broken pottery strewn in front of Littlest Star's house. Yucca floor mats and broken pottery littered the path in front of Arrow Maker's home nearby.

Tag hesitated at Singing Woman's house. He was seething. In just the few minutes since he had been there, her belongings had been looted. He wished he had picked up her basket where Gravel Voice dropped it. Now it would rot in the unrelenting Arizona elements.

“Every piece of pottery, each arrowhead, and bit of yucca cordage has a story to tell. When anyone steals or destroys even the smallest artifact, its story and the information learned from it disappears forever.” His dad's regularly-given lecture blasted through Tag's mind.

“Dad, I couldn't stop them!” Tag cried. Sadness ripped at his heart as the need for breath tore at his lungs.

Tag flew over the hard-packed trail. He
had
to get back tc the cave. Tears of frustration and anger blurred his eyes. He stumbled down. A pant leg lashed into his face with a sting Tag whipped the jeans off his head as he barreled to his feet In anger, he flung them in the air and hurled Walker's T-shirt after them. His feet pounded up the trail.

By the time Tag reached the cliff up to the cave, depression outweighed his anger. He scaled up the sheer wall. “I was a fool to even think I could pro . . .” He missed his footing but caught himself, “protect anything. It's impossible, simply impossible.”

Holding the paho in his scraped and dirty hands, Tag felt emotionally and physically drained. “Why should I even try?” his voice reverberated within the cave. His stomach growled His head and heart ached.

“Why should I even try, Great Owl?” Tag yelled. “Great Owl, I know you are watching!” Tears clouded his eyes. His knees felt weak. “Great Owl, please tell me what I am supposed to do. Please.” The echo of Tag's pleading voice faded against the walls of the cave.

Tag looked down at the paho clenched in his fist and closed his eyes. He had no choice but to go on into time, with or without Great Owl's help.

Think good thoughts, positive thoughts
. He leaned over the shrine with the paho.
Things have to get better. They can't get worse—or can they?

Tag gently lifted the paho off the shrine the second time. His head pounded from time-walking and frustration. As he wrapped the paho in its buckskin, the memory of his first stop in time tormented him. How could he protect the canyon, its treasures and story against time and man?

With his head still throbbing in pain and uncertainty, Tag started down the cave's cliff.
Where am I in time now? How many years or centuries have I walked this time?

He jumped down the last foot of the cliff and took a deep breath, trying to clear his foggy mind. Apprehension pulsated rhythmically with the pain in his head. What or whom must he face now?

The canyon had changed again. On the north side of the canyon, Tag saw a thick, green forest of pinion pines and junipers. Douglas fir trees covered the south rim of the canyon. Ponderosa pine and Gambel oak trees stood in thick groves on the west rim. The rocky ledges and shelves that had
been barren, were now carpeted in sage brush, bee weed, wolf berry, cacti, blue grass, mutton grass, and other summer grasses.

“It looks more like the twentieth century than before,” whispered Tag. Excitement doused his wariness. “But it doesn't smell or feel exactly right. Guess there is only one way to find out for sure.” He trotted down the path toward the village.

The walls of Singing Woman's house looked almost the same as when he had last seen it. The limestone slabs were still in place forming a strong, thick wall.
Things look good so far
.

Tag crawled through the low, T-shaped doorway. Soft dirt seeped into his shoes. His eyes adjusted to the dim light as his nose singed with an acrid, dusty smell. Mounds of dirt, blown in over the years, blanketed the stone floor.

He hurried to the back of the room where the tops of the fire pit rocks peeked up through a bank of dirt. Tag couldn't see any of the cookware or dishes. “Whatever Deep Voice didn't destroy is probably buried under the dirt,” Tag whispered. A strong urge to start digging swept over him. “No, things are safer buried, harder to find to steal.”

Tag stopped and touched the smooth, empty trough of Littlest Star's metate. Her mano was nowhere in sight. Pottery sherds littered her doorway, but the walls were intact. Tag pushed on past the other homes.

Great Owl's and Morning Flower's adjoining houses stood strong and silent in the warmth of the sun. Relief pumped though Tag as he crawled through the low door.

His relief vanished. Recently, someone had dug in the drifts of dirt. Yucca floor mats protruded through the dirt where they had been pulled up. Flute Maiden's bowls and pots lay in neat piles as if someone was returning any moment to cart them off.

Tag knelt beside the rotting mat next to the fire pit and gently
pulled it free from the dirt. His throat tightened as he saw the handle of Small Cub's mug poking up in the dirt. He carefully dug around the ceramic handle.
It's still in one piece
! Tag dumped the dirt out of the small brown mug and inspected it.