Walker of Time (5 page)

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.”

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.

Náat, I have walked time, but not alone
, Walker thought. He chuckled, thinking about the noisy bahana following him. He wondered how this city boy would like sleeping on the hard ground, not having flushable toilets, and eating who knows what? Tag thought the Hopi Reservation was primitive! Walker shook his head. Yet as Náat would say, “He has a good heart and deep courage.”

A high-pitched shriek shattered the quiet air, echoing off the canyon walls. Walker stopped. The hair on his neck was standing on end, his scalp tightening. He could feel Tag's fear in the air between them.

Just as the echoing died, a second cry filled with fear pierced his ears, “Taawa . . .”

“This way,” called Walker over his shoulder, bounding down the trail. “It's coming from farther down.”

Walker heard Tag exclaim, “Never a dull minute around here.”

Walker sprinted down the path, scanning the area around and below the trail, trying to locate the sound. The echo had died; the canyon air was still. He saw the fork in the trail ahead, and his feet slowed. His mind questioned. Which way? Up toward the cliff dwellings or down deeper in the canyon?

In answer, the strange, haunting feeling filled his mind. “Down, down,” it prompted with an almost overpowering intensity.

Walker started down the chosen path. He turned his head to look back at Tag. The bahana's big feet were kicking up rocks and dust, half-running, half-tripping down the steep trail.

“Great Taawa, have pity on this noisy bahana . . . protect him,” prayed Walker.

The path was getting steeper now, leading down and around a deep limestone overhang. Walker's moccasins slipped. He skidded to a stop at the outside edge of the path. Catching his breath, Walker looked down over the ledge and saw the winding trail below.

A thin, petite girl with blue-black hair flowing almost to her waist stood frozen on the path below. Her slim arms crossed her chest. Her eyes were squeezed closed. Her lips formed a straight, tight line of fear across her oval-shaped face. Yet Walker could hear the soft rhythmic humming sound of an old familiar prayer song. A rattling sound accompanied the girl's soft humming, sending a cold shiver racing up Walker's backbone. In the middle of the trail, coiled just a few inches from the girl's sandaled feet, was a huge rattlesnake.

Looking down at the snake poised to strike, Walker's heart thundered in his throat. A cold shudder shook his body like an earthquake. His palms were as wet as if he had just washed them.

Yet in the same instant, the distinctive rattling sound, accompanied by the rhythmic humming, flooded Walker's mind with vivid memories, unforgettable sounds, and keenly sharp images.

Walker's ears seemed to fill with the beat of cotton-wood drums, gourd rattles shaking, and deep, throaty singing. In his mind's eye, Walker again experienced the annual Hopi Snake Dance at his village.

He saw a long, double line of Hopi Snake Priests dancing almost side by side in the village plaza. Each dancer was dressed in a knee-length, dark brown, leather kilt with a black snake painted around the bottom. Thick, white, woven sashes were tied around the priests' waists. From the back of each sash hung a red fox pelt. The priests' bare chests were painted reddish-brown and were hung heavy with turquoise jewelry. White eagle feathers tied in their long, black hair fluttered in the air. With each of the dancers' steps, Walker heard the unforgettable clacking sound of the tortoise shell rattles tied to the back of each dancer's right knee.

Walker narrowed his mental picture to a single pair of dancers in the snakelike line. The priests' faces were painted brown with white lightning flashes down their cheeks. A cold shiver shook Walker's body as he visualized a live rattlesnake held firmly but gently in the mouth of one of the dancers. The poisonous snake was held just below its flat head, with its eyes flattened against the priest's painted cheek.

Walker tried to focus his memory on the snake priest's partner, the teaser. The teaser danced slightly behind and to the right of the priest holding the snake. The teaser's left arm came around the other dancer's right shoulder holding him tightly. In the teaser's right hand was a carved branch about a foot long. White-tipped eagle feathers were tied to the end of it. Holding the snake whip close to the snake's head, the teaser stroked, distracted, and mesmerized the snake with the movement of the sacred eagle feathers. Walker knew that only the teaser's harmonious thoughts and skill with the whip kept both dancers from being bitten by the deadly snake.

Hearing Tag's heavy footsteps, Walker's mind snapped back to the present. He turned to see the bahana running down the trail toward him. In one swift motion, he moved away from the ledge and put his index finger to his lips.

Tag's mouth closed before any sound could escape. His big feet stopped short, jerking his tall body forward.

With his right index finger still against his lips, Walker motioned with his left hand for him to come. With short, quick steps, Tag moved up next to him. He pointed over the trail's edge to the girl below.

Tag's face grew pale. He whispered, “What are we going to do?”

“How good a shot are you with a rock?” asked Walker, sliding his backpack off, opening it.

“You have got to be kidding!” Tag exclaimed, turning to look at Walker.

Walker pulled out the prayer stick and started to unwrap it. “Once we get close enough, I'll use the paho to distract the . . .”

“Hey, wait just a minute,” interrupted Tag, in a harsh whisper. His eyes were like bowling balls. “I've heard about how you Hopis dance with live rattlesnakes in your mouths as a religious thing. But remember, I'm just a dumb white kid!”

“The eagle is the snake's mortal enemy; its feathers have special power over it.” Walker laid the paho on the ground at his feet. He buckled the backpack closed. “Once the snake is mesmerized by the movement of the feathers, you just smash it with a rock,” Walker instructed. Then flashing a grin, he added, “A big one, please.”

He put his backpack on, picked up the paho in his right hand and started down the trail. He could hear Tag mumbling, “ ‘Just smash it with a rock,' he says.”

A minute later, he heard Tag huffing behind him on the trail. Walker glanced back over his shoulder. The bahana was lugging a football-sized rock.

The trail went around a large boulder, then turned sharply down toward where the girl stood. Walker stopped on the trail about ten feet above the girl to wait for the bahana.

Tag's breath was coming in short gulps. He stopped next to Walker. “Are you sure this is going to work?” he whispered in between breaths.

“Think good thoughts, happy thoughts; Taawa will guide you,” answered Walker. “Move very slowly and quietly. Try to stay just behind me.”

With the paho in his outstretched right hand, Walker stepped toward the coiled snake. The snake's threatening rattle thundered in the air as he moved closer.

Walker's mind raced, trying to recall every detail of how the teasers moved and twisted the snake whip to make
the feathers flutter and dance. In all the years he had watched the sacred ritual, had he ever seen a priest bitten by a snake?