Tag Against Time

by Helen Hughes Vick

  Tag Against Time

  TAG

  AGAINST

  TIME

  HELEN HUGHES VICK

  Copyright © 1996 by Helen Hughes Vick

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form

  or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information

  storage and retrieval systems, without written

  permission from the publisher, except by

  a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.

  Taylor Trade

  A Roberts Rinehart Book

  A wholly owned subsidiary of

  The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc.

  4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200

  Lanham, MD 20706

  Distributed by National Book Network

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Vick, H. H. (Helen Hughes), date

  Tag against time / Helen Hughes Vick.

  p. cm.

  Sequel to: Walker’s journey home.

  Summary: Twelve-year-old Tag struggles with himself and encounters

  historical figures and events as he time-travels from the ancient

  cliff-dwellers period to the present.

  ISBN 978-1-57140-007-9

  [1. Time travel--Fiction. 2. Hopi Indians--Fiction. 3. Indians

  of North America--Arizona--Fiction. 4. Walnut Canyon National

  Monument (Ariz.)--Fiction.] I. Title

  PZ7.V63Tag 1996 [Fic]--dc20 95-45371

  To my own

  Michael T.

  and

  Lauren Marie

  1

  The twelve-year-old boy’s freckled face was streaked with time. His curly brown hair was matted with the ages. He drew up a gangly leg and reached down to tie his fluorescent shoelaces. His feet felt pinched and cramped in the heavy jogging shoes. He fingered the handwoven yucca sandals that lay next to him, and said to himself, “It’s going to be hard to get used to wearing real shoes again.” Tag tucked the sandals next to the leather loincloth on top of the other clothes in the old canvas backpack.

  He picked up the small ceramic canteen, shaped like a tortoise shell, rounded on one side, flat on the other. Tag pulled the wooden stopper from the small opening at the top. “Better take a drink now since I don’t know how many years it will be till I get another one.” Would the water in the canteen evaporate during time-walking? Tag chuckled. Now that was an interesting thought. What could scientists learn about A.D. 1200 from just a few drops of water? He wedged the stopper back in tight. “Of course, I have plenty to tell them—but will they believe me? Will even my own dad believe me?”

  Tag shook his head and laid the canteen on the top of the backpack. Buckling up the pack, he knew that what he had lived through was inconceivable. He hardly believed it himself.

  His knees creaked as he got up. Tag shook his long legs to get the pant legs down to where they belonged. The stiff, blue jeans chafed his sun-baked skin. How could he have ever thought that jeans were comfortable? Maybe he’d put his loincloth back on. It was less restrictive than his old clothes or were they his new clothes? Tag laughed. Time was relative. He slung the pack onto his shoulder. What would Mom and Dad think if he came home to the nineteen-nineties wearing nothing but a seven-hundred-year-old Sinagua Indian loincloth?

  A flash of lightning outside lit up the small cave.

  He stooped down and picked up an eight-inch-long, leather-wrapped object from the cave’s limestone floor.

  Thunder rolled into the cave vibrating the close walls.

  Tag unwrapped the soft folds of buckskin. Sweat formed on his forehead as he looked down at the fragile prayer stick. A thin strand of leather tied the two distinctive pieces of wood together. Each piece of wood had a carved face, the left a male, the right a female. The white eagle feathers adorning the ancient images fluttered in the breeze that was drifting into the cave’s opening.

  How can such a primitive object have such immense power? Tag wiped the sweat out of his eyes. The carved wood of the paho felt as fragile as fine glass. The feathers looked as though one strong breath of air would disintegrate them. Yet his future lay within this ancient prayer stick. A chill slithered up Tag’s spine and pulled at the tight curls on the back of his neck.

  The future . . .

  Tag looked around the small cave. Standing in the middle, he could almost touch each wall. The cave was only a few feet deep. At five feet, seven inches, Tag had to duck to get inside its low entrance. This small, unremarkable cave was the aperture into time; the ancient paho, the key that opened the passageway into the future.

  Lightning lit up the cave for a split second.

  The future . . .

  Clutching the paho, Tag’s thoughts flashed to the afternoon when his incredible journey began. That afternoon was now seven-hundred-odd years in the future. Tag closed his eyes. His memories of that day were vivid and clear as his mind relived scaling up the ten-foot-high cliff to the cave. Lightning had been striking all around him. He had just known he was going to get fried at any minute. His heart echoed the roll of thunder as he pulled himself over the top of the cliff. Rain drenched his face.

  He scrambled across the narrow stone ledge to the cave’s low entrance. Lightning struck a pine tree just to the side of the cave. Tag dove into the cave’s dark entrance. An overpowering, blue light surged through the cave. He saw an Indian boy bending over a pile of rocks at the back of the cave, holding something in his hands. The cave exploded with thunder and darkness. In that instant of darkness, his life had changed forever.

  Tag remembered regaining his senses and finding Walker, a fifteen-year-old Hopi, in an unconscious heap. He cringed at the memory of his brassy interrogation of Walker. How could he have been so rude—no, just ignorant of the Hopi ways?

  Pushing away the uncomfortable memory, Tag guided his mind to the moment that they had left the cave. He relived the shock of seeing the canyon. Despite the fact he had lived on its rim for five years, the canyon was alien. The once heavily-vegetated canyon was now parched and dry. Even the air felt different; crisper, cleaner—hostile.

  “We have walked time—walked back to when the ancient ones lived in this canyon,” said Walker, staring down into the canyon. “I was sent here for a purpose and for some reason time is running out.” They sat on the ledge outside the cave. Walker explained that he came to the cave because of his Uncle’s Náat’s dying request to, “Do what must be done.” Walker looked over at Tag. “Things could get dangerous. Maybe you should stay here in the cave while I go . . .”

  “No way, buddy. I’ll just keep tagging along with you. Excuse the pun.”

  Tag let the memories of their incredible and dangerous adventure of living with the ancient ones fast-forward in his mind, as the thunder echoed outside the cave. Great Owl, the seer and powerful magician, had given them shelter and spiritual guidance. White Badger, Great Owl’s son, gave unquestioning friendship and protection. Tag’s stomach growled at the memory of Morning Flower’s unusual but tasty meals eaten by Great Owl’s fire pit. He smiled at the thought of Flute Maiden’s pretty, oval face, and deep, slanted eyes. Did Walker see the love revealed in her eyes?

  The memory of four-year-old Small Cub’s laughter filled Tag’s mind with love and worry. Small Cub had become like a little brother to him. Could Small Cub survive the sickness that brought swift and certain death to the inhabitants of the canyon?

  Please let Small Cub live, Tag prayed. Please . . .

  Gray Wolf’s thin, angry face seared through Tag’s prayer. “Witches. They are two-hearted witches. Kill them now before they bring death to all of us!” Gray’s Wolf’s voice screeched through Tag’s memory.

  T
ag’s mind jolted back to the cave as his eyes flew open. His scalp tightened. Like turning on a light after a nightmare, a brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the cave. Tag struggled to get control of himself. The holy paho shook in his clenched hand. How had they ever survived Gray Wolf’s deadly intentions?

  Thunder shook the walls of the cave.

  Tag tried to steady the shaking paho. His knees felt like rubber, while his stomach twisted in tight leaden knots. He was safe from Gray Wolf, but would he ever feel truly safe again? What real nightmares did the future hold for him? Tag attempted to swallow the tightness in his throat. Had he made the right decision to try to time-walk back to his own place in time? There was no guarantee he could even get back to the nineteen-nineties. The tightness in Tag’s throat moved upward. His chin trembled. Would he ever see Mom and Dad again? If only Walker were coming with me, Tag shifted the paho to his other hand. No, Walker’s decision to remain behind with the ancient ones was correct. The ancient ones were his people, his flesh and blood.

  Tears blurred Tag’s vision. He reached up and wiped his eyes. Worry nagged like a canker sore. Could Walker lead his people out of the death-filled canyon and guide them to a new home on the Hopi mesas far to the northeast? What were the odds that anyone would survive such a long journey in A.D. 1200 and something?

  It’s still not too late. Tag looked toward the cave’s opening. I can climb down to the village and tell Walker that I’ve changed my . . .

  “My son, now is the time for you to do that which you were sent to do.” Great Owl’s words filled the cave as if they were thunder.

  Tag whipped around searching the cave even though he knew he was alone. Was Great Owl seeing his thoughts? Would Great Owl watch his every moment through time? The assumption gave Tag a curiously comfortable feeling. But what did Great Owl mean? “Now is the time for you to do that which you were sent to do.” What was he supposed to do? What could he do? Confusion compounded Tag’s apprehension. How will I ever know?

  Lightning flashed outside. Its brilliant light illuminated the cave for a split second. The paho seemed to absorb the light and its power. Tag felt a strange and wondrous energy radiating from it.

  “You must think good thoughts—positive thoughts; our great creator, Taawa, will guide your steps.” Great Owl’s words were thunder. “Place the holy paho on the shrine.”

  Tag’s heart beat against his ribs as if it was trying to escape. Whether he wanted to or not, Tag knew he had to walk into the future. His time with the ancient ones was over. The rock shrine sat on a natural shelf protruding from the cave’s wall. Tag took a deep breath and held it.

  Good thoughts, happy thoughts—pepperoni pizza, juicy hamburgers, curly french fries—soft, clean beds, flushing toilets, hot showers. Tag placed the holy prayer stick on the shrine. Mom, Dad . . .

  A dazzling, blue light filled the cave. In the same instant the cave exploded with thunder. The deafening sound echoed through Tag’s head, piercing his brain with pain.

  Total darkness consumed the cave. The air felt heavy with age, decay, and death. Thunder vibrated through Tag’s body. He slumped to his knees, gasping for air. None would come.

  The cave swirled and twisted in time . . .

  2

  The cave ceased twisting and turning. Time stopped.

  Tag tried to get his leaden eyelids open, but couldn’t. His head throbbed in pain as warmth thawed his cold body. The rocky floor of the cave gnawed at his back. He managed to roll over onto his side. The glaring light beat against his closed eyelids. Tag fought to bring his mind into focus.

  I’m still in the cave, but where—no, when am I in time? He knew it could be anywhere from A.D. 1250 to infinity. But when? Fear and uncertainty again began building in the pit of his empty stomach. Had he been wrong in leaving Walker and the ancient ones? His stomach knotted in hunger. No, it growled. Tag’s mind agreed even in its unfocused, floating state. Although he had made lasting ties with the ancient ones, his true bonds were with pizza, computers, and running water. Tag’s heart interjected; Mom and Dad. Living with the ancient ones made him realize how much a part of his parents he was.

  Before his journey back into time, he resented the long hours his father, a field archaeologist, spent studying, “dead Indians.” Pain thundered through his head. How could I have been so childish? Tag now understood his father’s deep-seated desire to learn about the ancient ones and help preserve their culture. He could hardly wait to apprise his dad about what it was really like to live with those who held his fascination. The stories he had to tell!

  If I ever see Dad or Mom again, Tag’s mind focused sharply now. Tears stung behind his closed eyes as his heart merged with his mind. His mom’s freckled face, her smiling brown eyes, and wild curly hair, flashed through his mind. Tag clenched his eyes tighter, trying to see her face better. A baseball-sized lump filled his throat. “You’re a twelve-year-old going-on-twenty,” her often spoken words resounded through his memory.

  I might act twenty, but I’m still a kid! his heart screamed. And I want to go home!

  Hot tears burned his check. Great Owl promised that he could try more than once to get back. But how many times? Two, three, five, twenty-five?

  The cave’s floor was getting harder by the second. He had to move or petrify lying there. It was time to face reality, whatever or whenever that was. Tag forced his eyes open. Sunlight washed the cave. The air felt uncomfortably warm.

  The paho lay on the stone shrine. “Remember, my son, the paho only has power when the moon illuminates the passageway of time.” Great Owl’s words echoed through Tag’s mind as he struggled to his feet. His bones cracked as if he had lain in one position for years. He groaned. The groan echoed off the cave’s close walls. Tag jumped, looking around. Realizing what had happened, he laughed. The sound bounced around the cave, laughing with him.

  Tag reached for the ancient paho, his key to time. “I’d better keep this with me every minute. If I lose it, I’ll never make it home.” His words repeated themselves as he reached for Walker’s backpack laying nearby.

  “Walker of Time, where are you walking now? How many of your people are walking with you?” Tag whispered, wrapping the prayer stick in its buckskin. An ache rose in his throat. Walker’s handsome, reddish-brown face, with its high forehead, and dark, slanted eyes streaked across Tag’s memory. Would he ever know what happened to his friend? He chuckled. “I know. I know. It’s rude to ask so many questions. It’s not the Hopi or the ancient ones’ way to ask questions.”

  Tag noticed the small natural basin below the shrine that had been formed by years of water seeping through the limestone. When he left Walker, it was half full. Now, it held only a fingertip of water.

  “Proof! I have gone through time.” A surge of excitement shot through Tag. “But how much?”

  His voice echoed back the question. Maybe he was back in 1993 already.

  “Let’s go find out.” Tag answered himself. He placed the prayer stick on top of the pack.

  “Go find out . . . Go find out,” his hollow echo tolled through the cave.

  Like an oven being opened, hot dry air blasted Tag as he stood on the narrow ledge in front of the cave. He gazed down into the rocky, six-hundred-foot canyon. “I can’t believe it,” he whispered. “Things are even worse than when I left.”

  The drought that baked the ancient ones’ crops in the fields and dried up their limited water supply had worsened. What little sage and bee grass that had been growing on the canyon sides were gone. Cacti were the only living things now, and they even looked wilted beyond revival. The rugged crags and crevices of the canyon stood hostile and barren in the glaring sun.

  What else had changed? Deadly silence permeated the canyon. Tag looked down the sheer, ten-foot-cliff he’d have to descend to get to the village. The memory of his close call the first time he climbed down it, sharpened his apprehension.

  Obviously, I’m not back to my own time. I don’t have to go
down, I can just go on into time.

  A raven’s shrill cry echoed in the canyon.

  “Now is the time for you to do what you were sent for,” Great Owl’s words replaced the raven’s call in the scorching air. Goose bumps rose on Tag’s arms.

  He plopped down on the ledge of the cliff, letting his long legs dangle in midair. The heat from the limestone seared through his jeans.

  The old proverbial hot seat. Of course, he had to go down into the village. The part of him that was his father, the archaeologist, the lover and studier of peoples, wouldn’t allow him to take the easy way out. He had to see, to experience what the village was like now, whenever that was. He yearned to be a part of the living history of Walnut Canyon so that he could tell his father all about it.

  By the look of things, Tag had a gut feeling that the vandals and pothunters had not yet done their dirty work of destroying and stealing time. His heart thundered at the thought of grave hunters looting his friends’ graves.

  “I know the human vultures will come,” Tag’s voice was low and intense. “But I will protect the ancient ones’ home and whatever they left behind!” Even as he spoke the words, his mind questioned how.

  Looking up into the cloudless sky, he whispered, “Great Taawa, God of the ancient ones, please help me find a way.”

  He adjusted the pack on his shoulders and eased himself, legs first, over the edge of the cliff. Tag searched with his feet for the first notch chiseled into the face of the cliff. Where is it? His heart pounded in his ears. His foot slipped into a toehold, and he lowered himself down, balancing in the notch while feeling for the next toehold with his other foot.

  Tag rested his body against the face of the cliff. His fingers clung to mere cracks. He gazed down. The sheer wall below looked about a hundred feet high. Sweat poured into his eyes. “Don’t look down!”

  Tag aimed his eyes straight ahead at the multicolored limestone. He blinked to clear his eyes and took a deep breath. “Don’t be such a wimp. Even if you do fall, it won’t kill you.” His halfhearted words died against the wall. He lowered his foot, feeling for the next notch. “Just break a leg or something,” he mumbled, turning his head to the other side.