Walker of Time

by Helen Hughes Vick

  Tag watched. “I guess a new baby always attracts women. What are they all carrying in the big pots?”

  Walker shrugged his shoulders.

  Three women holding empty pots emerged from Son of Great Bear’s door. They spoke to the two women waiting outside, then left. Before the other two women could enter Son of Great Bear’s doorway, Small Cub came tumbling out. He came barreling into Great Owl’s home, almost knocking over Walker and Tag. Looking up, his face broke into a huge grin. “Father says that I must bring you to see my new sister!”

  “We would be honored to come,” Walker answered, ruffling the little boy’s thick, black hair.

  “Small Cub, please tell your mother that I will be over in a few minutes,” Flute Maiden called from the back of the room where she was tidying things up. “Is Great Owl at your house now?” she asked.

  Small Cub nodded. “Grandfather and Uncle White Badger both came, but Uncle left.” Taking Tag’s hand, Small Cub began pulling him out the doorway.

  Son of Great Bear greeted them at his door. “Welcome to my house. Please come in and share in this special day.”

  Morning Flower lay close to the back of the room, covered with a blanket made from strips of animal skins woven together. Great Owl sat cross-legged on a mat close to Morning Flower. Small Cub pulled Tag toward them. “Hurry before she starts crying again. She loves to cry.”

  “Brother,” Son of Great Bear said to Walker. “I did not get to thank you before you left earlier. Without your help, Morning Flower and my daughter might have . . .” his voice faltered.

  “I was proud to help,” Walker said in a low voice. His eyes met Son of Great Bear’s and saw acceptance reflected in the intelligent, dark eyes.

  Walker knelt beside Tag and Small Cub by Morning Flower’s mat. Morning Flower smiled shyly. She pulled back the edge of the white rabbitskin that covered the small bundle in her arms.

  Walker’s heart filled with wonder as he looked at the small, dark, wrinkled face framed by the soft fur. The baby’s eyes were closed. Her small, heart-shaped mouth moved as if it were sucking. A tiny, perfect fist lay against her round, smooth check.

  “She doesn’t like to have her eyes open,” stated Small Cub, still holding Tag’s hand. He crunched up his face into a scowl. “I think she’s funny looking,” he whispered to Tag. As if he had understood, Tag smiled and nodded. Walker tried hard not to laugh.

  “What are you going to name her?” Tag asked, squeezing Small Cub.

  Walker conveyed the question. Shaking his head, Small Cub squealed with laughter. “Big brothers don’t name babies—aunts do!”

  It was also a Hopi tradition to have a maternal aunt choose an infant’s first name. How similar the two cultures are, thought Walker, turning to Tag. “You will have to ask Flute Maiden if she has chosen a name yet for the baby.”

  Tag rubbed his chin. “Hmmm, just like the Hopis do, right?” he asked, as if he were entering it into his mental journal of living archaeology.

  Walker just nodded, surprised again at Tag’s knowledge of his people’s ways.

  Watching the baby and listening to Small Cub’s chatter, Walker became aware of movement in back of him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw two women working in the front corner of the room by the doorway. After a few seconds of watching them, he nudged Tag’s arm. Tag turned. Walker nodded toward the women.

  Littlest Star was bending down, reaching into the big pot at her feet. Her hands came out cradling dark, wet mud. With quick, smooth movements, she spread the mud out over the wall. The other woman, Fawn, was also plastering the wall with mud from her large bowl.

  “It is a tradition to make our homes as fresh as possible after the birth of child,” Morning Flower said in a soft voice. Walker realized that it was the first time she had spoken directly to him. “It is our way of showing respect and gratitude for the new life among us.” Morning Flower’s tired face looked pleased as she watched her friends work. “By nightfall, all the walls will have a new layer of plaster.”

  “Everywhere except there,” said Small Cub, jumping up and running over to the door. He stood pointing to a spot over the doorway where Walker could vaguely see something with a small feather tied to it.

  Son of Great Bear explained, “When our daughter’s birth cord dries up and falls off, I will tie it to a small prayer stick. Then I will wedge the prayer stick in the wall above the doorway just below the smoke holes.”

  Still pointing to the spot above the doorway, Small Cub exclaimed, “Father put mine right there, so that I will always know where my true home is.” With a proud smile, Small Cub ran back and plopped down into his father’s lap.

  “At my village, we do the same thing,” Walker said, “except we put the prayer stick into the woven reeds in our open beam ceilings. We, too, always know where our hearts began and where they belong.”

  “Our people’s ways are very much alike,” Great Owl said, his deep eyes resting on Walker.

  The mysterious feeling began to swirl around Walker like smoke from a fire. “Very much alike . . . alike . . . alike . . .” it whispered.

  “Come on, Walker. I think we’d better leave so Morning Flower can feed her baby or whatever,” Tag said, poking Walker in the ribs. He stood up and moved to the door.

  Walker rose. The mysterious feeling faded away. “Thank you for sharing your daughter with us,” he said to Morning Flower. “She is beautiful.” Morning Flower smiled and lowered her eyes.

  Son of Great Bear touched his arm. “I think it would be best if this were hidden,” he whispered, handing Walker the flashlight. “Our people are not accustomed to seeing the sunlight captured.”

  Taking his flashlight, Walker answered, “You are right. I’m sure that Gray Wolf could explain it in one word: witchcraft. Thank you for trusting me.”

  White Badger and Scar Cheek stood waiting outside on the trail. White Badger turned to Son of Great Bear. “Most of the men have left for the fields. We will also go up on the rim today to help them. There is still much being said about our visitors,” White Badger said in a low voice. He looked worried as he spoke to Walker. “I think it is best that you stay close to Scar Cheek and me for the day. Where is Tag now?”

  Walker looked around. “He must be in Son of Great Bear’s house still. I thought he went out before I did. I’ll go . . .”

  Tag came crawling out of Son of Great Bear’s low doorway. Seeing the others waiting for him, he grinned sheepishly. “What’s up?” he asked, wiping his very muddy hands on his loincloth.

  Walker looked at Tag’s muddy hands. What had Tag been doing? Would he ever understand this bahana? He shrugged his shoulders a bit and quickly explained to Tag what White Badger had proposed.

  Tag’s sheepish face broke into his toothy grin. “Great! Now maybe we can meet the chief’s son.”

  Turning to his brother-in-law, White Badger instructed, “You must stay here with your family, Son of Great Bear. I will stop at Arrow Maker’s home to let him know that you are here. Send word through him if there is any trouble.”

  Arrow Maker greeted them at his door. “Welcome. Welcome,” he said.

  Walker recognized Arrow Maker as the man with the yellow cape and the limp who had told Scar Cheek about the men meeting at the fort yesterday. Without his long cape on, Walker could now see that Arrow Maker’s right leg was thinner and shorter than his left leg. His left shoulder hunched forward from a large hump on his back. “Sit. Sit,” he said, easing himself down with some difficulty onto a mat just outside his doorway.

  White Badger knelt down beside the middle-aged man. The others did the same, making a small circle.

  “You need arrows,” said Arrow Maker, and a proud smile filled his small, round face. A neat row of smooth, straight arrow shafts lay near him on one side. On the other side was a tidy line of completed arrows with sharp, black obsidian arrowheads. Spread out in front of him was a leather cloth with the tools of his trade lying on it. Arrow Maker picked up one of the
unfinished shafts and began working on it with a small, stone knife.

  Walker heard Tag catch his breath. He knew without even looking that Tag’s eyes were bulging at what he was seeing.

  “Yes, my friend, we need arrows. Tomorrow we will leave before sunrise to hunt. Since we must have only the truest of arrows, we come to you, of course,” said White Badger, with a smile in his voice. Leaning close to Arrow Maker, he reached down and picked up a completed arrow. While inspecting it, he continued in a low voice. “We will be in the fields today. Our visitors will be with us, but Son of Great Bear will remain behind with his family. Others will remain behind, too, I am sure.”

  The tone of White Badger’s voice made Arrow Maker look up from his work. It was clear that he had understood White Badger. He nodded. His eyes glanced toward Tag. Tag flashed him a friendly grin, which Arrow Maker returned. He turned to Walker, still smiling. He noticed the eagle pendant around Walker’s neck. Arrow Maker’s eyes widened, his thin lips becoming a firm, straight line across his face. He studied the turquoise pendant. His mouth opened slightly as if he were about to say something to Walker.

  Instead, Arrow Maker turned to White Badger and Scar Cheek. “My son will stay here and work with me today. He is helping his mother get water now, but he will be back soon. His legs are fast and strong for one only eight summers. He will find you if you are needed here,” Arrow Maker’s voice was a whisper.

  “Good,” said White Badger in a normal tone. “These are excellent arrows, as always.”

  Arrow Maker laughed. “As always—of course.” He reached down and picked up the finished arrows. Their sharp, black points caught the morning light. “Will this be enough?”

  Taking the arrows, White Badger answered, “For now, yes, but there may be a need for more soon.”

  Arrow Maker nodded his head in understanding, and a worried look washed over his face. Walker’s scalp tightened as a chill worked its way up his back.

  “Walker, ask him if I can come back sometime to watch him make arrows,” Tag whispered, his voice full of excitement.

  “My friend admires your work,” Walker said, nodding toward the unfinished arrows. “He would like to come back and watch you work.”

  A grin spread across Arrow Maker’s face. “My legs and back are crooked and weak, but these hands,” he said, lifting his hands up, “can make arrows that shoot straight and true.”

  “You also make the keenest spearheads and the best knives in the village,” added Scar Cheek.

  Arrow Maker chuckled with pleasure. “Tell your friend that I would be honored if he came back anytime. I will teach him all he wants to know.”

  Walker translated his offer to Tag. “Great! Tell him I will be back as soon as I can. Learning to make arrows—I can’t believe it!” Tag exclaimed. “This is getting better and better.”

  Watching the bahana’s excitement, Arrow Maker grinned and nodded his head. Tag had won another friend, thought Walker.

  As they rose to leave, Arrow Maker reached out and touched Walker’s arm. “Wait,” he said in a firm voice. Walker paused. Arrow Maker reached into a leather pouch sitting next to his tools. He drew out a six-inch black stone. Handing it to Walker, he said, “You will need a good knife.”

  Walker looked down at the crude weapon in his hand. The black obsidian had been flaked at one end to fit into a hand snugly. The other end had been shaped and sharpened to a fine point. He ran his finger along the sharp edge of the knife to its point. It was simplistic, undeveloped, but it would be very effective in skinning a rabbit or deer. It would also offer a degree of protection. Walker turned it over in his hand. It fit perfectly. He was stunned by Arrow Maker’s generosity.

  Before Walker could speak, Arrow Maker handed a second knife to Tag. It was smaller, but still a formidable tool and weapon. Tag was speechless as he examined his gift. “I can’t believe it, just can’t believe it,” he finally said in almost a whisper. “Thank you—thank you.” His grin covered his freckled face.

  Walker slipped his knife under the thick, leather thong around his waist. The keen blade lay against the brown buckskin loincloth that White Badger had lent him to wear. Its black polished surface almost glistened in the sun. “We owe you much for these beautiful knives,” Walker said to Arrow Maker. “Thank you.”

  “You will earn them, I think,” Arrow Maker said with a strange sound of confidence in his voice.

  The image of Gray Wolf’s lean face flashed through Walker’s mind, followed by the vision of the black knife bathed in bright red blood.

  18

  Walker was glad that he was wearing the short, leather loincloth instead of the long leggings that Náat had sent with him. Even though it was still early morning, the sun’s rays were very hot.

  Walker felt anxious following White Badger up the steep, narrow path leading to the rim of the canyon. It would be good to be out of the limestone walls and to be able to see the sacred mountain once more. What would it look like now, seven hundred years ago? he wondered.

  With no physical warning, they crested the canyon’s rim. White Badger stopped to talk to the man standing guard at the trail head. As they talked, the man’s deeply slant eyes kept glancing at Walker and Tag, his fingers gripping his spear. Walker could see suspicion and fear in the man’s face.

  “Gosh,” gasped Tag, looking around. “I can’t believe the difference!” Taking a few steps, with his arms making a sweeping motion, he continued. “This used to be—I mean this will be—forest for as far as you can see. But now it’s just, just . . .”

  “Rocky, dry farmland,” finished Walker, brushing a strand of hair out of his sweaty face.

  The area nearby had been cleared of rocks and neatly terraced. Groups of men and boys were working among the crops planted in the different terraces. Around the terraces, the earth became studded with mounds of limestone rocks. Cacti and sage were the only vegetation growing among the rocks.

  Walker shaded his eyes from the sun looking toward the San Francisco Peaks. His breath caught in his throat. The silhouette of the sacred mountain, made up of its three, partially coned-shaped, volcanic peaks, was the same as he had always known it. But the mountain’s face and sides were alien to him. Instead of being covered with the green softness of thick forest, its sides were hardened black with deep, massive lava flows. The holy mountain stood out harsh and hostile looking against the brilliant blue sky. A thin layer of clouds shrouded the mountain’s top. Small batches of puffy clouds floated away from the blanket of clouds lying on the highest peaks.

  “I just can’t believe it,” Tag repeated. “Everything is so different. The only things that look the least bit familiar are the clouds on the San Francisco Peaks.”

  “Not clouds; Kachinas,” whispered Walker so quietly that his friend couldn’t hear his words. He wouldn’t take time now to explain to this twentieth-century bahana that the clouds leaving the sacred mountain were actually the friendly spirits that the Hopi called Kachinas or Cloud People. These guardian spirits of the Hopis lived on the holy mountain’s highest peak. But during the months of spring and summer, they became clouds floating to the Hopi mesas to hear the prayers of the people. These humble pleas asked for plentiful sun and rain to insure good crops; for strength and good health for all who lived in the villages; and most important, for peace and harmony.

  Walker remembered Tag saying that he had attended a day-long Kachina dance at the Hopi village. Of course Tag had watched the long rows of colorful Kachinas in the plaza as they danced to the sounds of drums, rattles, and ancient prayer songs. How much had his father told him about the sacred powers of the Kachinas? Did Tag know that at dusk when the dances were completed the Kachinas carried the prayers of the day to the gods? Then the rains would come. The crops would grow, and the Hopi people would survive another winter. It had been the ritual of Hopi life for hundreds and hundreds of years. Without the Kachina dances, the Hopis would never survive in their harsh desert environment.

  A
thought flashed through Walker’s mind with the strength of lightning. Did the ancient ones have Kachina dances? Did they even know of these guardian spirits living so near? Walker watched another wisp of cloud break away from the sacred mountain. With the beauty and eloquence only a Kachina could have, it drifted northeast toward the Hopi mesas. Walker looked at the fields before him. He shook his head. No, the ancient ones knew nothing of the Cloud People. There were no dances here; no proper prayers to be carried to the gods by the Kachinas, so the gods did not send rain.

  Of course! Náat had sent him here to give these people the secret knowledge and power of the Kachinas! Walker suddenly felt a sense of relief in possibly knowing why he had been sent.

  Without a doubt Walker knew that these people needed to be under the protective care of the Kachinas or they would not survive. How could he teach such powerful and strange beliefs among these ancient brothers? The sense of relief began to fade and was replaced by fear. Gray Wolf would brand any new ideas or ways as witchcraft! Could the others possibly accept the foreign ideas and actions? How long could he survive advocating such startling concepts and practices?

  “Come on, Walker,” said Tag, poking his ribs. “I think it’s time to earn our keep.”

  Walker fell in behind Tag, who followed White Badger and Scar Cheek into the terraced fields. In the first level, small, squatty corn plants were growing. Their leaves were brownish and thirsty looking. Instead of being planted in long rows, individual plants were staggered four to five feet apart. Each plant had at least a fifteen-inch-wide catch bowl dug around the base of it.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier if they just planted all the plants close together in nice straight rows?” Tag asked, walking between the sorry-looking plants.

  “Sure, if there were plenty of water for irrigation,” answered Walker. “When there isn’t, it is better if each plant can spread its roots out in all directions to get any moisture there is.”

  “Makes sense,” Tag observed. “Making such big catch bowls helps, too, I bet. In a good rainstorm the entire bowl would fill up.”