Tag Against Time

by Helen Hughes Vick

  “Yes. Quite an Irish brood, isn’t it?” Mr. O’Farrell stopped at the top of the stairs. He pointed to an oil painting of a man and woman. The woman’s brown hair curled around her pleasant face. She sat in a chair and wore a long, blue, ruffled dress. Her hands lay on a Bible in her lap. The man, in an old-fashioned suit, stood at his wife’s side. His copper hair had streaks of gray at the sides. His steel-blue eyes seemed to smile. “This is my father, Sean Michael O’Farrell. He came to Flagstaff in 1880, as a surveyor for the railroad.”

  Tag studied the man in the picture and then glanced over at Mr. O’Farrell. He was watching him. Tag felt uncomfortable under his intense gaze. It wasn’t the first time he had caught Mr. O’Farrell scrutinizing him. Why did he get the feeling Mr. O’Farrell was playing a game of cat and mouse?

  He stared back at Mr. O’Farrell. “You look more like your father than your mother.”

  “So they say, but I inherited my mother’s overly active curiosity. Let’s get going, before Gary starts laying on the horn.”

  Gary’s trailer at Walnut Canyon was one of the government-owned trailers parked near the rim of the canyon under the ponderosa pines. The immaculate trailer had a bedroom at each end. Gary’s room had a single bed and wall-to-wall books. The other bedroom had bunk beds and more books.

  After getting settled down in his bed, Gary said, “Thanks Grandpa. Now stop fussing over me and let me sleep.”

  “Tag, are you up to some exploring?” Mr. O’Farrell said, after unpacking his suitcase.

  The sky over Walnut Canyon swirled with cotton candy clouds. The air was warm with a slight breeze that carried the scent of sage, pine, and autumn.

  “There are over one hundred and twenty cliff ruins built in the canyon walls.” Mr. O’Farrell and Tag stood at one of the overlooks of the canyon, happy to have it to themselves. “My father said that Walnut Canyon and its ruins spoke to him like no other place on earth, except for Ireland, of course.”

  Tag leaned against the iron railing. The canyon looked unimpressive, just another rocky canyon. He felt Mr. O’Farrell staring at him again in that intense way. A chill spread across his shoulder blades. “How do you get down to the ruins?”

  “You walk down on a paved trail. It’s a good little climb. We’ll do it tomorrow. Now, we best get back to check on our patient. Knowing Gary, he’s probably up cleaning his revolver or mopping the floor.”

  They walked back through the pines in silence. Tag glanced at Mr. O’Farrell. He seemed at home in the outdoors with his jeans, cowboy boots, and denim shirt. It was hard to visualize him stuck in an office or debating in a courtroom. Who was Mr. Michael T. O’Farrell? Tag remembered him saying they had met before, or did he just dream that? The first days at the hospital were like a nightmare now.

  If he knows who I am, why doesn’t he just tell me? Am I so terrible or was my life so horrible that he is afraid to tell me? Tag’s scalp tightened. Maybe it was better not to know.

  “Questions, questions with no easy answers,” Tag heard someone whisper. He looked around. Mr. O’Farrell hummed loudly as he marched along. No one else was in sight.

  Who had he heard? Dr. Lance hadn’t said anything about hearing voices being a part of amnesia. Was he going crazy too?

  The next few days passed uneventfully. Tag helped Mr. O’Farrell care for Gary, which was easy since he still slept a lot. The small trailer needed little upkeep. Most of the time, Mr. O’Farrell and Tag spent talking or reading. Mr. O’Farrell told Tag about his childhood in the rough western town of Flagstaff. For some reason, Tag found himself enjoying hearing about the wild and funny adventures Mr. O’Farrell recounted so dramatically. Michael T. had not been an angelic child.

  Mr. O’Farrell proved to be a good listener, also, letting Tag vent his frustrations, worries, and fears, when needed. “We’re here to help you, son,” Mr. O’Farrell said, squeezing Tag’s shoulder. “I’ll do my best to keep you here with us as long as necessary.”

  Tag spent hours reading newspapers and magazines searching for something to jar a memory. Daily headlines reported on the escalating war in Vietnam. Students all over the country protested U. S. involvement, while each day President Nixon sent more young men to die. Young men left the country, moved to Canada to avoid being drafted. Women burned their bras for female rights. Musicians with strange names; The Beatles, The Monkeys, The Rolling Stones, and Herman and the Hermits battled for fame and fortune in the recording industry. Every picture, every article, every song on the radio drew blanks. It was all new to Tag. He remembered nothing.

  Mr. O’Farrell and Tag went exploring around the area for short periods of time. They hiked down into the canyon and the ruins. Tag found the mud-and-rock homes interesting enough, but kept catching Mr. O’Farrell watching him as if something strange or amazing could happen any instant. It gave him the creeps.

  By the fifth day, Tag needed some time alone. “Is it okay if I go sit on the rim of the canyon for a while?” He finished drying the last cereal bowl and put it in the cupboard.

  “Sure. Stay as long as you want. My secretary is bringing out some legal briefs that I need to go over.” Mr. O’Farrell let the dishwater out of the sink. “Just don’t go too far. I’d hate to have to roust Gary out of bed to search for you.”

  The morning breeze had an early September nip to it. Tag sat under a tree on the edge of the canyon, watching two birds diving and dancing in the air above. Loneliness and depression filled every inch of his body. Even those birds know who they are and where they belong. Why don’t I?

  “Mind if I share the tree’s shade?”

  The voice startled Tag. He turned with a jerk. A stocky, young man stood behind him. His long blue-black hair blew around his lean, brownish-red face. He looked somewhere between sixteen and twenty years old. His dark almond-shaped eyes seemed to peer right through Tag, sending a chill up his back. Tag hesitated.

  The young man moved beside Tag. “It’s a beautiful canyon.”

  Tag couldn’t take his eyes off the newcomer. He wore strange leather pants and a top that looked handmade. His bare feet were in beaded moccasins. He looked something like the hippie types in the magazines.

  If he is, he is an Indian hippie. The strangest feeling pricked at Tag’s neck. He looked away from the young man. “It’s just a canyon.”

  “Look closer. It is a canyon wrapped in time and mystery.” He put his broad hand out to shake. “I’m Walker Talayesva.”

  23

  So what’s the great mystery?” Tag asked, looking at the Indian boy sitting next to him under the pine tree at the rim of the canyon. He decided Walker Talayesva was just an Indian, not a hippie. His leather clothes weren’t ornamental, but worn, from hard use. He wore a necklace. Not love beads though, just a turquoise pendant shaped like a bird, hanging on an old thin leather string. Walker was more mysterious than the canyon, especially his eyes, which were so dark brown they were almost black. When they peered at Tag, they seemed endless, timeless, yet soul-penetrating. Tag was sure secrets lay hidden within those eyes.

  “The bahanas, the whites, named the ancient people that lived here Sinagua.” Walker spoke with some sort of an accent, and he grouped his words in short phrases. “Sinagua is a Spanish word meaning without water, which is a good name since they didn’t have much water. Their mouths thirsted always. But what did they call themselves? Did they even have a name for themselves?” Walker asked.

  His words brought the hair on Tag’s neck up. “I’m sure they didn’t have a written language, so it’s impossible to know that.”

  “Where did they come from?” Walker paused, waiting for an answer. His eyes searched Tag’s face as if he were looking into his heart.

  Tag shrugged, thinking, I can’t even answer that about myself, let alone about some old, dead Indians.

  Something in Walker’s eyes gave Tag the impression that he had just seen his thought. Impossible! This guy is strung out on something. Tag studied Walker’s face. Maybe he
is a hippie after all, on a bad trip.

  The corners of Walker’s mouth curved. His eyes sparkled. “Why did the ancient ones leave their cliff homes?” he asked, not breaking eye contact. “Where did they go and why?”

  “Ask a Park Ranger!” Tag snapped. This guy was a real pain. He jumped to his feet and stomped off. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Questions, questions with no easy answers.”

  Tag swung around. “What did you say?”

  “The answers are all here. The canyon holds all the answers.”

  “Who are you anyway?” Tag stood, hands on his hips, glaring at Walker. “Where did you come from?”

  “I live in a village on the Hopi mesas.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Like you, I’m searching for answers.”

  “About what?”

  Walker stood up. Shorter than Tag, he looked up into his eyes. “The past, the present, and the future—isn’t that what we all are seeking the answers to?” He turned and walked away.

  Tag watched him disappear into the thick trees, moving without a sound. Something within urged Tag to run after him, stop him, and shake him until he explained his stupid riddles. Instead, he whipped around and tromped back to the trailer. Anger and hurt churned with each step.

  “Where are the Hopi mesas?”

  Gary sat on the vinyl couch with his leg propped up on the heavy coffee table. He was up and about now, on a limited basis. Gary put down his book. “They are about ninety miles northeast of here. Actually, there are three mesas where the Hopi live. It’s a reservation.”

  “What are they like, the Hopi?” Tag looked out the trailer window into the forest.

  “Very traditional. Their pueblo villages are hundreds of years old. Going there is like walking back in time. They have religious dances, Kachina dances, which have been performed for centuries. There are four books about the Hopi on the bookshelf next to my bed, under the law books. You are welcome to read them.”

  Mr. O’Farrell walked in from the kitchen with a half-peeled potato in one hand and knife in the other. “Why the sudden interest in the Hopi?”

  Tag squirmed in his chair. “I met someone today who mentioned them.”

  The next morning, Tag plopped down under the same tree. The sky was cloudless, the air comfortable. He leaned against the tree and closed his eyes. Drowsiness weighed his eyes down. The books on the Hopi Indians were so fascinating that he had read until past three A.M. Now, the buzz of bees lolled him, and the sun covered him like a blanket. He fought to keep his eyes open. The peaceful minutes flew by like a butterfly. Tag closed his eyes.

  Out of the grayness of his sleep, a fragile, old man appeared. He leaned on an intricately-carved staff. His long white hair spilled over his thin, rounded shoulders. A multicolored, beaded skullcap covered his old head. A long red kilt reached his knobby knees. His thin chest was bare, except for a fist-sized, seashell pendant. “The answers to all of your questions are here, within the walls of the canyon.” His almond eyes shimmered like pools of time. “My speckled son, you must search for them.” He lifted his staff at Tag. “Trust and search.”

  Something tickled Tag’s nose. He jerked and reached up with his hand up to brush it off. A fly sang in his ear. He opened his eyes. Sunlight gleamed around the leather-clad figure standing next to him. Tag stumbled up. “Walker, I’m glad you came back. I—I—I’m sorry about yesterday.” He jammed his hands deep into his pockets. “I read about your people last night. Is it true that you Hopis dance with rattlesnakes in your mouths?”

  “Yes, but only the snake priests perform the sacred rite.”

  “Have you ever seen anyone one get bitten before?”

  Walker laughed and shook his head. He cocked a dark eye brow. “Questions?”

  “Yeah, I have more than my share of questions.” A lump rose in Tag’s throat.

  “Questions with no easy answers . . .” Walker took a deep breath and blew it out. “We all have such questions.” He began walking. Tag followed. “The answers are around, if one just looks for them.”

  The morning grew into afternoon. Tag exhausted his questions regarding the Hopi; their ways, beliefs, and villages. Walker patiently answered them as they explored the rim of the canyon. They went full circle, and now sat under the tree where they had started.

  “I’d really like to go to your village and meet your family,” Tag said. His legs ached from hiking along the steep, rocky rim. With all his questions about the Hopi people, his other questions—those about himself—were forgotten. For the first time since he woke up in the hospital, he felt the fingers of depression slipping away. Life looked almost livable. “Are you going back today?”

  Walker picked a blade of grass and rolled it between his fingers. “No.”

  “I’ve got to go into Flagstaff with the O’Farrells today. They are the people I’m—visiting. Maybe we can meet again tomorrow morning.”

  Walker smiled and nodded.

  “You have a spark of spunk in your eyes.” Mr. O’Farrell put a loaf of bread into the grocery cart. “I know getting out of the trailer helps. Cabin fever gets me, too. Well, we need to bring Gary into therapy every afternoon for the next few weeks. That will help.”

  Tag pushed the cart along. “If you don’t need me, could I stay at the canyon some of the days?”

  “Sure, if you’d rather be alone.”

  “I won’t be alone,” the words slipped out. Tag saw surprise, then concern spread across Mr. O’Farrell’s weathered face. “I—I—well, I made a friend.”

  “Oh?”

  “His name is Walker. He’s Hopi.”

  Mr. O’Farrell put three cans of tuna fish into the cart. “Really?”

  “He told me all about his people today. When a Hopi baby’s umbilical cord falls off, the father ties it on a stick with a string and eagle feathers around it.” Tag pointed to the ceiling. “He places it in the roof over the front door of their home, so the baby will always know where his heart started and where it belongs. Neat, isn’t it? Of course, the traditional Hopi homes are open-beamed with natural insulation, like brush and branches woven in between the beams. Did you know that they dragged logs for the original roof beams from the San Francisco Peaks hundreds of years ago?”

  “Can’t say that I did.” Mr. O’Farrell’s intense eyes searched Tag’s face.

  “We’re going to meet again tomorrow, if that’s okay. You’d like Walker. You’ve never met anyone like him before.”

  Mr. O’Farrell scratched his beard. “He must be something if he can put the spunk back into you.”

  Walker was waiting under the tree the next morning. He stood, brushing off his leggings. “I thought the bed wouldn’t let you out,” he teased.

  “I’m sorry. It was my turn to fix breakfast. Now, about the Indians that lived in the canyon,” Tag started walking. “Do you know anything about them?”

  “Oh, just a bit,” Walker answered.

  The pattern took root. Tag hurried in the mornings to meet Walker. They spent the morning roaming the ruins and the forest. In the afternoons, if Tag didn’t go to Flagstaff, they hiked for miles around the area. Tag felt secure, but free, with Walker, who asked no questions. Tag’s worries, confusion, and frustrations abated when he was with Walker.

  Only during the nights, with Mr. O’Farrell snoring in the bunk above him, did the reality of his predicament taunt him to tears. Who was he? What was his real name? Didn’t his parents love him? What had he done to make them abandon him? How could the world seem completely out of sync? Why couldn’t he remember anything at all? In the darkness of the nighttime, Tag kept track of the days, and prayed that Mr. O’Farrell could extend his custody rights past the thirty days. What would happen if he couldn’t?

  After a week, Mr. O’Farrell asked to meet Walker. Tag felt nervous with Mr. O’Farrell walking beside him through the pines. “I know you will like Walker, but . . . but,” he stopped.

  “But what?” Mr. O�
��Farrell asked, marching along in his usual stride.

  Tag hurried to catch up with him. “Walker dresses funny, sort of like a hippie, but he’s not one. He has long hair, but it’s just because he’s a traditional Hopi.”

  Mr. O’Farrell stopped and put his hand on Tag’s shoulder. “Son, I don’t care if his hair is sky-blue-pink and his skin is green. No one has ever accused me of being prejudiced. I just want to meet this young man who has brought you back to life.”

  Walker grasped Mr. O’Farrell’s hand, meeting its firmness with his own. “Sir.”

  Tag saw a startled look on Mr. O’Farrell’s face when he looked into Walker’s dark eyes. “It is nice to meet you. Tag talks about nothing else but you.”

  Walker laughed. “Yes, he does talk a lot, doesn’t he?”

  Mr. O’Farrell chuckled and shook his head. “Yes he does, but only since he met you. We’d like you to come to dinner tonight.” A time was set, and Mr. O’Farrell marched off back to the trailer.

  Tag knew that Walker had cast his mysterious spell over Mr. O’Farrell too. He wondered how the more cautious Gary would take to Walker.

  That night, Walker and Gary discussed Walnut Canyon and its ancient people. When Gary elaborated on the artifacts found in the burial sites, Tag watched a strange sadness fill Walker’s eyes. Walker stared off as if he were hundreds of miles, or years, away. Suddenly, Tag became aware that Mr. O’Farrell was scrutinizing Walker. Tag’s scalp tightened.

  Mr. O’Farrell escorted Walker out of the trailer at the end of the evening and didn’t return for quite awhile. Warning bells went off in Tag’s mind. Was Mr. O’Farrell cross-examining Walker, or was he telling Walker all about the kid with no past—no future?

  Tag felt more alone and vulnerable than ever before. He glanced at the calendar. There were only ten days left of Mr. O’Farrell’s custody. Then what would happen?

  24