Tag Against Time

by Helen Hughes Vick

  “Good. We’ll have plenty to talk about.”

  Tag wished he could talk.

  9

  Tag knelt elbow-to-elbow beside Major John Wesley Powell in Arrow Maker’s house. Someone had knocked out the narrow T-shaped door, enlarging it by three feet. Now, bright morning light streamed through the gap. Tag carefully sifted through the loose, gritty dirt in the back of the house.

  “Here is another piece of obsidian, a big one.” Tag brushed the dirt off the black rock. “It has chip marks on it, too.”

  Major Powell took the fist-sized rock and studied it. “Smaller pieces have been chipped away from it, probably for arrowheads. It is strange that we have found so many little chips of obsidian in this ruin and now this larger piece.”

  Tag emptied the dirt from the trowel he held. “Maybe a stone knapper lived here.”

  “Interesting thought, but I doubt that a knapper would work inside a house since it is such cramped quarters.” Majoi Powell slipped the obsidian into a wooden box with the other flakes of obsidian found in the same pile of dirt.

  Tag pictured Arrow Maker in his mind; the friendly eyes, the steady hands, the long yellow cape covering the hump on his back, and the uneven legs that made walking difficult. Of course Arrow Maker stayed close to his home: it was easier for him. He remembered Arrow Maker always having a deer antler in his dark hands, chipping away at hunks of obsidian in the process of making arrowheads, knives, or spearheads.

  “Maybe he took his work home at night,” Tag suggested. He handed another obsidian chip to Major Powell. “He sat by the fire pit for light to work by.”

  “You think this was the fire pit?”

  Tag met Major Powell’s keen eyes. His hands suddenly felt sweaty. “Well, with the soot on the ceiling right above here, it seems logical.”

  “You are right.” Major Powell smiled and went back to his digging. “You are very observant.” He uncovered another good-sized rock. After dusting it off, he held it out to Tag. “What do you make of this?”

  The eight- to ten-inch square rock was vesicular basalt. Tag ran his finger along the smooth groove running longitudinally through the center of the stone. “A shaft abrader.” The words popped out of Tag’s mouth before he thought. He clamped his mouth shut and stared down at the stone.

  “Hmm, a shaft abrader you think,” Major Powell peered at him. “Well, are you going to tell me how it was used?” He stroked his beard with his index finger and waited for Tag to answer.

  Tag swallowed and squirmed around on his knees. “I . . . I . . .”

  “Come boy. You are obviously very knowledgeable about Indian artifacts. Don’t be shy. I want to hear your theory on how the shaft abrader was used.”

  “It’s just a guess, but maybe the shaft of an arrow was put in the groove and rubbed back and forth to smooth and clean the shaft.” Tag peered up at Major Powell. The man’s eyes shot straight through him. “I’m probably totally wrong.”

  “But you aren’t. Where did you learn so much about archaeology, boy?”

  “Major Powell, have you found anything interesting?” Sean crawled through the doorway.

  Major Powell stared at Tag. “Why yes, I think I have.”

  Tag jumped up. “Here Sean, you can take my place. I’ve got to go, haven’t gone for hours.”

  “After you finish, son, go see if Mr. Stevenson or Mr. Riordan need anything from the wagon.” Sean put his hand on Tag’s shoulder. “I’ll be here if you need help.”

  The rest of the morning Tag kept away from Major Powell. He found being with James Stevenson less intimidating. Stevenson reminded Tag of his own father, with his intense interest, precise observations, and willingness to share his knowledge with others. Tag fought to keep his firsthand information about the ancient ones to himself, as the group speculated on the life-style of hundreds of years ago.

  “After seeing the huge pueblo villages north of here, I suspect these people left to go live there. As the old saying goes, they thought that the grass was greener there,” said Michael Riordan. He sat down outside one of the ruins and leaned against the front wall. Tag handed him a canteen and listened.

  “I don’t think so, Michael,” Stevenson said, wiping his forehead. He pointed to the sturdy mud-and-rock wall of the ruin. “There was too much time and energy expended building all these cliff homes for the people to just pick up and move to another location so close. Tree rings in the area suggest a major draught hundreds of years ago. My guess is that the draught forced these people out.”

  Visions of Small Cub laying on his mat, dying of dehydration from vomiting and diarrhea, flashed through Tag’s mind. A death swifter than lightning forced them to leave. He bit his tongue and blinked his tear-blurred eyes.

  “The larger storage pots we found here last year are gone,” Stevenson stated with disgust in his voice. The sun hung directly overhead now. He stood in front of Great Owl’s house with Sean and Michael. Flute Maiden’s pottery, which Tag had saved from Kern and Horace, lay at Stevenson’s feet in a wooden box.

  Tag leaned against the front wall of Morning Flower’s adjoining home. He stared at his friend’s pottery waiting to be hauled up to the wagon. His throat tightened.

  “You are right, James.” Sean dusted the loose dirt off his pants legs. “As more people move into the area, more come and take whatever suits their fancy.”

  Stevenson put his hands on his hips. “Disgusting! These artifacts survived hundreds of years before the white man came. Now they are being destroyed in a matter of months.”

  “The question is what can be done to protect this area?” Major Powell asked, crawling out of Great Owl’s doorway. He stood next to Sean.

  Tag blurted out, “Laws need to be passed to protect antiquities.” Everyone’s eyes fell on him.

  Major Powell looked at Stevenson and then at Tag. He stroked his beard in thought. “You might be right, son.”

  “I agree that something needs to done, but it will be pretty hard to enforce any such laws around here. Even cattle-thieving laws are near to impossible to uphold.” Michael Riordan pointed to the pottery near his feet. “Not many people are willing or have the time to protect old pots.”

  “It has got to start sometime or there will be nothing left for future generations!” Tag took a step toward the men, his heart racing. “It’s not just here, either. All over the Southwest there are thousand of ruins, big and small, being destroyed. The ancient ones’ belongings and other artifacts are being stolen by the hundreds of thousands and along with them all the clues to the ancient ones’ lives.” Tag choked back the rest of what he wanted to say, realizing that he had already said too much.

  “Laws,” repeated Powell, gazing at Tag. “Laws.”

  Sean knelt down to the box of ceramic pots, bowls, and mugs. “James, are you planning on taking all of these back with you?”

  “Yes, they are all excellent pieces.” Stevenson squatted beside Sean. “Tag is correct about clues to the past. Why there is a wealth of information in this box alone.” He held up Flute Maiden’s large stew bowl. “This bowl is perfect for exhibiting at the Smithsonian.”

  Even though Stevenson was an archaeologist, Tag didn’t want him to take any of his friend’s things away, even to study. Flute Maiden’s ceramic ware didn’t belong back in Washington. The pieces belonged here where they were created, used, and loved.

  Tears clouded Tag’s eyes. He slipped into Morning Flower’s doorway. He fought for control as his eyes focused in the dim light.

  “Great Owl, what can I do?” Tag whispered. “What can I do? Great Owl, please tell me!”

  Stillness echoed through the ruin.

  If Great Owl was indeed watching, he was leaving things up to Tag to handle. “Great, just great!” Tag whispered and turned to leave. The numerous handprints in the mud plaster on the front wall caught his eye.

  “They’re still here!”

  Tag slipped his hand into his own print, a print larger than the rest. He
had made this print hundreds of years ago. The memory of the day he placed his hand in the wet mud plaster swirled around him.

  Morning Flower’s daughter had just been born, with Walker’s help. The village women had come to replaster the walls. It’s our tradition to make our homes as fresh as possible after the birth of a child, Tag heard Morning Flower’s shy voice say as she cradled her hours-old daughter in her arms. Wrapped in a rabbit pelt blanket, the sleeping baby’s mouth moved in a sucking motion.

  “Tag,” Sean’s brogue startled Tag back into the present. Sean stood right behind him. Tag jerked his hand away from the wall.

  Sean studied Tag’s face. Silence and tension saturated the ruin. Finally, Sean said, “We’re going down to the stand of walnut trees in the bottom of the canyon. Can you go get the box with our lunch and meet us there?”

  “Sure.” Tag hurried out the door.

  Sean saw my hand in the print. Tag carried the box of food back down the path. The canvas pack bounced on his back as his worries jostled his mind. How much longer till Sean or the others demanded to know who he was?

  Tag stopped in front of Littlest Star’s house. He set the heavy wooden box down on her metate. He had to think things through before he saw Sean again. It might be safer if I just left now. But how can I? There’s so much to do right now that I can’t . . .

  “Looks like we’re just in time for lunch, Kern.” Horace stood a few feet away from Tag. A mean smirk covered his grimy face.

  “Yup. But first, we got us a skinny skunk to kill.” Kern stood right behind Horace.

  Tag bolted up the trail in the opposite direction.

  “Get him!” hollered Kern.

  Rocks slipped under Tag’s shoes, almost bringing him down.

  “Faster Horace.”

  Tag pushed harder. The trail became more overgrown with vegetation as it wound around a huge outcropping of limestone. Tag leaped over a rock, just missing a cactus. Rocks rolled. From behind, a scream of pain filled the air.

  “Get up, Horace. He’s getting away!”

  “I can’t. My ankle’s twisted.”

  Tag kept running, but noticed a long, narrow crevice in the top of the rocks, some five feet above his head. Would it be deep enough for him to hide in? Could he even squeeze through the opening?

  “Let me by, Horace. I’m going to get that stinkin’ skunk.”

  Tag scaled upward on all fours. With his pack on, he couldn’t squeeze into the narrow opening of the crevice. He slipped the pack off, pushed it in ahead of him. On his stomach, he wiggled into the crack. Rocks scraped his back and stomach as he slithered as far back into the crevice as he could. His lungs burned and his mouth felt like sandpaper. He tried to quiet his panting. Was he visible from the path? He scrunched tighter against the back wall of the crevice. Please, Great Taawa. Let Kern be nearsighted.

  Kern’s foul words saturated the air below him. “He’s disappeared—just vanished!”

  “Help me, Kern. My ankle is swellin’ up like a melon,” Horace cried.

  “You stupid fool, if you hadn’t fallen we could’ve got him.”

  It seemed like hours till Kern’s cussing and Horace’s whining faded away. Tag wormed out of the crevice and climbed down. He looked around to get his bearings. The trail to the cave was above him. Kern was somewhere between him and the men in the bottom of the canyon. Could he make it down to Sean and the others without meeting up with Kern? Was being with the men an even greater risk?

  Once or twice, Tag thought he heard something as he raced up the path to the cave. Each time he swung around, but he saw nothing and hurried on.

  Sweat poured into his eyes as he scaled up the cliff. Why doesn’t this climb get easier?

  Tag heaved himself over the ledge and lay catching his breath. I made it!

  He pulled up into a kneeling position. Opening the pack, Tag fumbled for the paho. Walker’s flashlight rolled against his fingers. Tag hurried toward the cave’s entrance. He felt the buckskin at the bottom of the pack. Tag pulled out the paho and began unwrapping it.

  “Good thoughts, happy thoughts,” he said.

  Someone grabbed Tag’s shoulder and jerked him around.

  10

  Kern’s foul breath blasted Tag as his fist flew towards Tag’s face.

  Tag ducked and jammed an elbow into Kern’s stomach. Sticking his foot in back of Kern’s, he shoved. Kern fell backward in a cloud of dust. Tag raced through the cave’s entrance.

  Good thoughts, positive thoughts. Tag lunged toward the shrine with the outstretched paho. Please Taawa, don’t let Kern come with me!

  The cave exploded with thunder.

  Air finally found its way into Tag’s lungs. He took gulping breaths. Pain hammered his head with each breath, and his thought processes began working again.

  “Kern!” Tag forced his eyes open. His own shrill voice pierced back through his head as it bounced off the cave’s wall. He jerked up.

  The cave was empty.

  “Thank you,” Tag whispered. “It doesn’t matter where I am in time, as long as Kern’s not with me.”

  The air in the cave was warm. It felt like late July or early August. Tag stretched out his cramped legs. His back creaked. He felt centuries old. “I guess I am,” Tag said, getting up.

  “I am . . . I am . . .” his words echoed around him.

  Tag wrapped the paho up in its leather again. He opened the pack and placed it inside. “It could be 1993.”

  “19 . . .” His echoed abruptly died.

  Tag felt his scalp tighten, “But something tells me it’s not.”

  “Not . . . not . . . not . . .”

  Tramping out of the cave, he started climbing down the cliff as the echo resounded within the walls of the ancient cave.

  “No!” Tag’s words bounced off the canyon walls and back into his face as he stared at the pile of rubble that was once Singing Woman’s house.

  As soon as he had hiked down the main trail, Tag realized things had deteriorated. He had virtually followed a path of graffiti, rusty tin cans, beer bottles, and litter to Singing Woman’s home, but he wasn’t prepared for the destruction before him.

  He scrambled over the pile of limestone slabs. Nothing remained of Singing Woman’s belongings except numerous pottery sherds strewn all over the ground. Tin cans and broken glass bottles circled the fire pit, and half-burnt logs spoke of recent fires. Names and dates scrawled in glaring black paint, or carved deep into the limestone, covered the back wall and the low roof.

  Tag pivoted, surveying the destruction, still not accepting it. His knees shook and his empty stomach twisted in fury. “They didn’t listen. No one did a blasted thing to help!”

  Rectangular rock slabs shot out from under his shoes as he climbed out of the rubble of Singing Woman’s home. Many of the bricklike slabs littered the steep side of the ledge in front of the ruin. How did they get so far down the hill?

  Tag’s surface emotions, the anger and frustration, urged him to go back to the cave. It’s useless. You can’t change history. Yet the archaeologist, deep within him, demanded that he see the full extent of the damage. Homesickness welled up in his chest. He wished he could crawl into his dad’s strong, capable arms.

  “There is something for you to do here,” Great Owl’s voice whispered amidst the devastation.

  The hair on Tag’s neck stood up. He wiped his teary eyes with the back of his hand. “But what?” His question blew away in the breeze.

  The next group of ruins looked better. The long, continuous walls that made up five homes stood intact, although the T-shaped doorways were no longer recognizable. Tag crawled over the debris and through the gap where the first doorway had once stood. Decay singed his nose. Large pieces of yucca mats lay in a pile with pottery sherds and tin cans. Small brown corncobs lay in a heap in one corner. A once-neat pile of yucca cordage used for rabbit snares lay scattered nearby. Whose house was this? Tag searched his memory. Scar Cheek’s or Fawn’s?

&n
bsp; Tag started to climb out through the irregular opening. He spied something wedged in between the rock slabs. What? Tag picked it up. A dynamite fuse! Someone blew the doorway out to have more light to pothunt! His anger exploded. Walls that took hours of tedious and strenuous work to build had been blown apart in seconds by greed. He stared at the steep ledge below the house and realized why the stone slabs from the wall now littered the hillside.

  “How can man be so stupid?” Tag screamed. He hurled a broken slab as far as he could over the edge of the path.

  Tag touched the smooth, empty trough of Littlest Star’s metate, surprised that someone hadn’t blown it apart, too. The front wall of Littlest Star’s house still remained intact. Hope swelled in Tag’s heart. Maybe Great Owls’ home is okay too!

  The destruction was random. Many of the walls had gapping holes, while others stood strong and whole. Tin cans, bottles, and yellowing newspaper littered the doorways. Tag knew he should stop and get a date off one of the brittle newspapers, but the uncertainty of the state of Great Owl’s home spurred him on.

  “Yes!” Both Great Owl’s and Morning Flower’s adjoining home showed no significant damage. Crawling inside Great Owl’s house, Tag saw that it was cleaned out right down to the bare limestone floor. Not even a pottery sherd remained.

  “These two ruins were excavated some thirty years ago, back in 1885, by Richard Stevenson.” The gravely voice, coming from just outside the doorway startled Tag. “Everything found in these ruins is on display at the Smithsonian Institution back in Washington D. C.” The voice had a definite New York accent. “Everything that is, but the handprints in the mud plaster. You can see these ancient prints best in the ruin on the right. Go ahead and go on in. Watch your head, please.”

  It would be only a matter of seconds before someone came into Great Owl’s house. Tag pressed himself against the corner of the front wall.

  A child’s voice screeched, “The ghost boy!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, dear.” A large, flowered bonnet poked through the T-shaped doorway. “That’s only a story—ahhh!” The woman’s head disappeared.