Tag Against Time

by Helen Hughes Vick

  Two black bulging eyes glared back at him. A whiplike tongue lashed toward his face.

  3

  Tag jerked away from the bulging eyes and lashing tongue inches from his nose. His scream filled the canyon as his right foot slipped out of its toehold. He clung to the wall, feet flailing in the air. Sweat ran into his eyes. His nails broke. The wall became a blur as Tag plummeted downward.

  I’m dead . . .

  One foot—two feet, the skin on his cheek peeled off. Blasts of pain shot though his arms as they banged against the limestone. He slammed down into a heap at the base of the cliff.

  Tag tasted blood and reached up to touch his mouth. His shaking hand missed his mouth and hit his cheek. A thousand pinpricks lit his face on fire. Through the sweat and tears, Tag saw blood on his hands. He fought off the wave of fear and pain sweeping his body.

  He inspected his arms—scraped, banged up, but not broken. His legs were okay, but felt like Jell-O. Tag eased himself up. “You’re all right,” he reassured himself.

  Tag looked up the cliff. What had he seen? The image of the hideous face filled his mind. A lizard, a dumb old lizard! Anger replaced his fear. How could I have been so stupid, careless . . . lucky? What would have happened if I had broken my leg or gashed my head open?

  An unnatural silence pierced the sweltering air. He took a deep breath. Yes, he was lucky this time, but would his luck hold? Tag’s scalp tightened.

  The steep, narrow path leading to the village was unchanged except for the heat waves rolling off the boulders and deep ledges. Tag lived on the rim of the canyon with his parents for five years in the twentieth century, but he had never felt such heat in the canyon before. It feels more like Phoenix in the summer than cool northern Arizona. Tag wiped the sweat out of his eyes. Maybe he should have taken the shortcut up to the village. The thought of scaling up the forty-foot-high narrow chimney sent a shiver through him. No, the long way to the village was safer. It wasn’t far now—just around the next bend.

  Tag stopped short to catch his breath and steady his emotions. What would he find? What if there are still people living in the village? The speculation boomeranged through his mind, sending a sudden chill through his body. There could be. Hadn’t he learned firsthand that anything was possible? Tag’s heart hammered. Not everyone was going to follow Walker out of the canyon.

  The sharp, angular face with thin lips pulled back in a snarl formed in Tag’s mind. Gray Wolf! Fear flooded him. The politically ambitious nineteen-year-old native had accused them of being witches and had tried to kill Walker. Had Gray Wolf and his followers survived the sickness that forced Walker and the others to leave the canyon?

  Tag’s analytical mind scrambled for possibilities. Archaeologists believed the canyon was abandoned around A.D. 1250. Had Walker actually left with his people in 1250? Could it have been much earlier, say A.D. 1240 or even 1215? If it were earlier, then Gray Wolf could still be alive and in control.

  Suddenly, he felt unsafe on the open path. Gray Wolf would kill him in a heartbeat. Tag slipped off the path and crouched beside a huge rock. Peering around at the walls of the canyon, he searched for signs of life. Should he take the risk and go to the village? It was safer, wiser just to go back to the cave and travel further into time. Tag tried to think through the panic that was taking over his mind and body.

  “Of course, there isn’t anyone left.” The sound of his own voice took an edge of fear away. “I would have seen or heard someone by now.” Tag stood up and started up the path again. His thundering heart was all he heard as he rounded the bend to the village.

  Nestled under a cavelike overhang was a rock-and-mud wall. A low, T-shaped doorway stood in the center of the sturdy wall. Tag’s heart felt as if it were going to explode. “Hello. Anyone home?” His words echoed off the wall in a hollow toll.

  Memories swirled around Tag like a mist. “Let your heart see, as well as your eyes,” the gentle words whispered out of the thick, low doorway.

  “Singing Woman! This is your house.” Tag touched the flat, limestone slabs neatly mortared with mud to form the front wall of the home. Warmth radiated from them. “Singing Woman.” Tag closed his eyes. A round, reddish-brown face, a sea of wrinkles, appeared in his mind. Singing Woman’s film-clouded eyes peered at him as if she were seeing him. She smiled and nodded as if to say, “Welcome.”

  Tag opened his eyes, moved to the door, and crouched down, his knees creaking. He placed his hands on the worn-smooth stone ledges at each side of the low doorway and crawled through.

  A dry, acrid smell met his nose. The air was cooler inside. Tag stood just inside the door, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness. It was in this room that Walker had learned of his past. Tag tried to imagine what went through Walker’s mind and heart when Singing Woman told him of his true heritage as an ancient one.

  “All my life I have felt as if I have been on a tightrope balancing between the traditional ways of my people and the strange, demanding ways of the white man.” Walker’s words echoed in Tag’s mind as his eyes came into focus.

  You were, Walker. You were on a tightrope caught between times. Now, you are where you are meant to be, doing what you were sent to do. A lost feeling washed over Tag, leaving him feeling empty. But where am I supposed to be? What am I supposed to do?

  “Be at peace my son, Taawa is with you,” Great Owl’s voice whispered through the abandoned home. “Let Taawa guide your steps.”

  Swallowing the tightness in his throat, Tag scanned the small room. The archaeologist inbred in him took hold, and he started taking mental notes.

  The room was about eight by twelve feet. The limestone that formed the deep overhang also made up the back wall and ceiling. The front rock-and-mud wall met the low roof of the overhang to complete the dwelling. The ancient home remained a quiet testimonial to a good housekeeper.

  Tag moved to the fire pit in the back corner. The woven yucca mats covering the stone floor crackled under his shoes. Tag knelt next to the small cooking pit. A large brown ceramic cooking pot sat next to the burnt logs as if just taken off the fire. The pot was empty except for a thick layer of dust. Anything left in it would have been carried off long ago by rats or mice. Tag stood up and touched the low ceiling above the fire pit. Black soot smudged his fingers. Wiping his hands on his jeans, he studied the rest of the home. Singing Woman’s neatly-organized ceramic dishes, storage baskets, sleeping mats, and a well-worn pair of yucca sandals waited patiently for their owner’s return.

  A shiver started at the base of Tag’s spine. Had Singing Woman left with Walker? Could she have managed to climb out of the canyon? Being both old and blind would make the long journey to the Hopi mesas impossible for her. The shiver pulled at Tag’s neck. Singing Woman had probably remained behind to die within the walls of her ancestral canyon. Tag’s heart felt heavy. He would never know the fate of this kind and loving woman or all the other inhabitants of the village that would one day be known as the Sinagua Indians.

  The gloom of depression invaded Singing Woman’s home as Tag realized his dilemma. “I’m the one balancing on the tightrope now; walking time, belonging nowhere.” His desperate words died in the silence of the mud-and-rock walls.

  Tag hurried by more mud-and-rock cliff homes. There was no noticeable deterioration in the homes—in whatever time had past since he had left the ancient ones. Had it been a year, ten years, or fifty? Tag couldn’t tell. Each thick, front wall was intact, standing strong against the harsh elements. Each home was silent, each T-shaped door empty except for memories swirling in and out, beckoning to him.

  Just outside Littlest Star’s home, a hand-held grinding-stone, a mano, lay on top of the boulder. Tag stopped next to the thigh-high metate. Its well-worn, rectangular grinding-trough was empty. Sadness tore at Tag’s heart. In the future, thousands of tourists visiting Walnut Canyon National Monument, would pass this boulder. Many would stop to touch and speculate about this unusual metate. Yet not one wo
uld know the soft-spoken woman who had ingeniously used this boulder to grind corn on, hour after hour, day after day, so that her family would have corn cakes to eat.

  Tag picked up the smooth, oval mano. Small flakes of corn lay hidden under it. How long will these last in time? Shaking his head, Tag replaced the mano. How long would the mano rest in its rightful place? Until some thief steals it for his artifact collection or to use as a paperweight, Tag’s stomach churned at the thought.

  At each house, faces and memories greeted Tag, enticing him into the past. The stark stillness of the canyon deepened his realization of being isolated in time.

  Standing at the door of Great Owl’s home, Tag felt overwhelmed. It was in this home that he had left most of himself. He had lived here and grown to love the ancient ones. Sitting by Great Owl’s fire he had learned that Walker was going to be the next High Chief. In this home, Tag had bid farewell to his little buddy, Small Cub. Had Small Cub escaped Masau’u’s, the god of death, cold fingers? Or was his thin body buried somewhere nearby?

  Something inside Tag urged him to enter, but dread kept his feet from moving. What would he find inside? What clues to Small Cub’s fate lay within the T-shaped door? Do I really want to know? Tightness squeezed Tag’s heart.

  The smell of death and time met Tag’s nose as he crawled through the low door. He strained to see. The room looked just the way he remembered last seeing it—or did it? The mat where Small Cub had lain sick was still next to the fire pit near the back of the room. A small brown ceramic drinking mug sat on the mat. Tag knelt. “Small Cub,” he whispered, picking up the mug. Did this mean that Small Cub had died? Surely, he would have taken his treasured mug with him if he had lived.

  Tag balanced the mug in one hand. Though small, the well-shaped ceramic mug was heavy. No. It would have been just that much more weight to carry and could break. They would only take the bare necessities that were light to carry and not breakable.

  He was half-tempted to slip the mug into his backpack as a remembrance of Small Cub. No one would ever know. It was just a small, insignificant item.

  “What is wrong with me?” Tag’s firm words vibrated off the walls scolding him. He set the mug where he had found it. “It’s just the same selfish thinking that pothunters have.” Tag could almost hear his father’s voice rather than his own bouncing off the walls. “What is wrong with you?”

  Tag canvassed the rest of the house, neat as it had been when he first entered with Walker. Flute Maiden, Great Owl’s daughter, had left it just as it was lived in; neat and organized. In the cooking area adjacent to the fire pit, tidy stacks of ceramic bowls, mugs, ladles, and pots stood waiting. Large ceramic food-storage jars with leather coverings stood next to the dishes. Tag knew without looking that they were empty. Every edible thing would be taken for the long journey.

  “Most ceramic housewares were left behind.” Tag took mental inventory of the cooking area, “Except for the ceramic water jugs.” Remembering hauling a full five-gallon jug up the canyon, he felt sorry for whoever carried them. How much water would Walker and his people find between here and the Hopi mesas? Worry nagged him.

  Pivoting, he took the three or four steps to the opposite side of the room used for personal items. “The big baskets that stored their clothes are gone. Baskets would be the practical thing to haul belongings.” He sounded like his dad again.

  What else had been in this corner? The sleeping mats were still there, but the animal-skin blankets were missing. Yes, they had taken just the bare necessities. Tag shook his head. The ancient ones had lived with so little compared to the televisions, boom-boxes, microwaves, computers, and the countless other luxuries of the future.

  Tag studied the home. Great Owl’s family had left a lot that would reveal their lives to future generations: ceramic dishes, a small white basket decorated with a bold, black design, a wooden spindle, and a child’s mug.

  Memories of the past swirled around Tag. Small Cub’s laughter and Flute Maiden’s soft, musical voice floated in the warm air. He could feel White Badger’s friendly presence and Great Owl’s warm acceptance. Walker’s smiling face rushed through Tag’s mind, leaving his heart empty. Deadly silence filled the room. Time pressed down on Tag’s shoulders like a huge yoke to be carried alone forever, without rest.

  “What have I gotten myself into, and how am I going to get out?” Tag’s desperate words died in the vastness of time.

  4

  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 ide
a.

  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.