Tag Against Time

by Helen Hughes Vick

  “It’s Mr. O’Farrell,” Tag whispered. “But, he’s just a kid.”

  “That’s right. Michael Tag O’Farrell was just ten years old, and you were trying to get to his father’s office. His father, your friend, Sean O’Farrell, named Michael T.—Michael Tag, after you.”

  A man with gray hair, white mustache, wire-rimmed glasses, and bowler hat appeared in Tag’s mind. He peered at Tag. “I learned long ago not to question things that have no easy answers; the needless deaths, the glorious births. But boy, I have to ask? Who are you?”

  “I’m just a kid who wants to be an archaeologist,” the Tag in his memory answered.

  Tag cried out. Memories? How could all these be his memories? Mr. O’Farrell said his father, Sean O’Farrell, came to Flagstaff in 1880. How could he have known Sean O’Farrell? It was impossible, and there was no way he could have memories of Michael T. O’Farrell as a child. Did the T. in Mr. O’Farrell’s name really stand for Tag? It was all too incredible. Tag’s head throbbed with pain. Confusion swirled around him like fog. How could this be happening?

  Walker’s voice came in a rush through the darkness. “You want to be an archaeologist just like your dad.”

  “My dad?” A man in dusty jeans, work shirt, and boots materialized in Tag’s mind. The tall thin man knelt beside a trench, digging with a hand trowel. He emptied each scoop of dirt carefully into a bucket next to him.

  Tag tried to see the man’s face. He couldn’t, yet somehow he knew this man was his father. “Dad?” he whispered. “Dad!” Tag felt a hand on his shoulder. He jumped. A feeling of warmth and security flowed into him. Serenity replaced his worry and confusion.

  “He can’t come to you, Tag. You have to go to him.”

  “But how? I don’t even know who he is or where he is.” “I’ll take you,” Walker whispered, kneeling next to him in the dark. “But you have to help me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know. You’ll just have to trust me.” The flashlight flipped on, pushing the darkness aside. Walker pulled Tag to his feet. “We have to hurry. Time is running out.”

  Tag knew he had heard Walker say that exact thing before, but when? An image of them sitting on a rocky ledge overlooking the canyon took hold of his mind. The memory faded as fast as it came. His head throbbed. Tag knew they had known each other before, and that he had to trust Walker. There was no other choice.

  He followed close behind Walker. How did Walker know where he was going? The tunnel seemed an endless maze, but he moved along without hesitation.

  “There it is.” A strip of light seeped through a doorway. Walker knelt and pushed the low door the rest of the way open.

  Brilliant light blinded Tag. Walker grabbed his arm and pulled him down and through the doorway.

  Shelves stacked with boxes lined the small basement room. A chunky man, in his late sixties, sat at a desk just inside the doorway. The man looked up from his work on the adding machine. He smiled and nodded as Walker and Tag scurried past. Walker pushed Tag up the steep stairway first.

  A crowd of people swarmed the camera shop. Tag bumped into a bald man with anchor tattoos on his hairy arms. The man almost dropped his camera. “I’m sorry.” Tag recognized him as the same man he had run into at the canyon. Hurrying on, he heard Walker say, “I’m glad they could fix your camera. Have a nice day, sir.”

  Tag burst out laughing. He rushed out the door into the bright sunlight. Why was he laughing? It wasn’t funny or was it? Stress was getting to him.

  A horn blared. Gary waved through the window of his red pickup truck across the street. Walker grabbed Tag’s arm. “Let’s go before that man makes you pay for his camera repair.”

  “How did you know I knocked that guy’s camera down last week?”

  “I saw it happen.” Walker hurried into the street.

  Tag stopped in the middle of the street. “You were still in the ruins. How could you have seen it happen?”

  Car brakes screeched. Walker yanked on Tag. “A seer.”

  “Seer? What’s a seer?”

  “Seer. I can see that car wants you to get out of the way. Now move it.”

  “I thought you were lost.” Gary slowed the truck, looked to the left and to the right, and ran a stop sign at the intersection.

  “Lost?” Walker said, easing back into the leather seat. “Not me.”

  “We’ll take a shortcut.” Gary pulled the truck off onto a dirt road.

  Tag felt Gary’s tension as he drove over the rutted, dirt road. His own nerves began unraveling again. How long had they been in the tunnel? Ten, twenty or thirty minutes? Had Mr. O’Farrell been able to get continued custody, or was he now a fugitive with the authorities searching for him? Of course, that was why Gary was using the back roads! Tag looked over at Walker sitting next to the door. With closed eyes, he leaned his head against the back of the seat. He looked asleep except for the muscles straining around his jaw and down his neck.

  Seer? Tag swallowed the lump in his throat. Could Walker really see things, things that others couldn’t? Could he see into one’s mind?

  Walker chuckled, opened one eye a crack and winked.

  “We’ve got trouble,” Gary slammed on the brakes. The truck fishtailed to a stop. At the end of the road, a gold Coconino County Sheriff’s car sat next to Gary’s trailer. A deputy in a western hat sat behind the wheel. Gary shoved the gear shift into reverse and hit the gas. “Maybe he didn’t see us.” He flipped the truck around and started back down the road.

  “He did.” Tag watched out the back window.

  “It’s our friend Snyder,” Gary said, looking in the rearview mirror. “No problem. He drives like an old man.”

  “He is an old man,” Walker said calmly.

  “Not far from here, there’s a sharp bend with lots of foliage where you can hide. The rim isn’t far from there. I’ll let you out, and I’ll lead Snyder away.” He tromped on the gas.

  “Where are we going?” Tag asked, not sure if he wanted to know.

  Gary said. “Think you can find your way back?”

  “No problem. Thanks for everything,” Walker answered. “You’ll just get a speeding ticket out of all this.”

  “It’s more than worth it.” Gary turned the steering wheel hard and hit the brakes.

  Walker threw open the truck door. “Come on buddy. It’s time to go walking.”

  Tag looked at Gary, trying to think of something to say. “Come back and see us someday, if you can,” Gary said, pushing him out. “Good luck.”

  Tag dashed into the trees just as the sheriff’s car sped by, lights flashing.

  Tag looked up the ten-foot, sheer cliff. “You have got to be kidding! I’m not climbing that.”

  “You’ve done it before. Just use the finger and toeholds chipped into the limestone,” Walker called down from halfway up the wall.

  “But, I don’t remember.”

  “Believe me, you don’t want to. Just start climbing.”

  Tag reached up, slipped his hand into a notch and pulled himself up. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” He found the next notch. Memories flicked like a silent movie; moonlight, a flashlight stuck in his mouth, something furry against his cheek. Tag leaned in against the rough limestone, his heart pounding in his throat. This is where he had fallen, sustaining the head injury that cost him his memory. Why? What in the world had he been doing climbing this cliff at night?

  “Why are we doing this?” Looking up, Tag saw Walker’s face leaning out over the top of the cliff.

  “Just keep moving those big feet of yours.”

  Tag stretched up and felt the last finger-hold. He heard footsteps on the path below. Turning his head, he saw Deputy Snyder running up the path below him. Tag heaved himself over the edge with Walker’s help.

  “Into the cave.” Walker pushed Tag toward a narrow, dark opening.

  Tag pulled back. “No way! I’ve had enough of dark places to last me a lifetime.”


  “It’s not dark inside. Come on!”

  “Before I go in there, you had better explain everything to me.”

  “We don’t have time. That deputy will be up here in seconds.” Walker stood in the mouth of the cave. “You are just going to have to trust me.”

  Tag heard Snyder swearing below. Shrugging his shoulders, he looked at Walker. “It doesn’t matter anyway cause we’re trapped.”

  “Not if we walk time.”

  “What are you talking about?” Tag moved closer.

  Walker lunged and grabbed him. “Come on!” He shoved him into the cave.

  Tag landed in the middle of the small cave. He tried to get back to his feet. Walker knocked him down. “Don’t move.” Walker rushed to the pile of rocks stacked on the ledge that jutted out of the cave’s wall. He reached behind the rocks, pulled out a leather bundle and began unwrapping it. “You can either trust me and walk time with me, or stay here for good.” The leather fell to the ground. Walker held a paho in his hand.

  “How did you get that?”

  “Great Owl made it for me, just as he made the one you had.”

  Tag whispered, “Great Owl, the old man with the staff.”

  “Yes, the seer. He watched you until he—” Walker paused. “He knew that you would need help, help that he couldn’t give. He made the paho for me to walk time.”

  Tag’s body shook. “I remember—but I don’t . . .”

  “Stay right where you are. You’re under arrest,” Snyder called.

  Tag saw him walking toward the cave’s entrance with his gun pulled.

  Walker clutched the paho is his left hand. He extended his right hand to Tag, “Trumount Abraham Grotewald. Trust me. Walk time with me.”

  He looked at Walker—one hand extended, the other holding the paho near the shrine. Tag swung around. Snyder was just a few steps from the entrance.

  “Please, Taawa, guide our steps.” Tag took Walker’s hand.

  26

  Warmth filled his cold body. Bright light beat against his closed eyelids, but Tag didn’t move. Every inch of his body ached, and his head screamed in pain as he floated in and out of a dark dream. A tiny, leather loincloth, no bigger than a washcloth, was all he had on against the bitter cold. He ran through a narrow tunnel: despite his efforts, the bright light at the end of the passageway didn’t get any closer.

  Got to keep going. Got to get home. His legs became heavier with each stride, slowing him to cartoonish slow motion. He struggled to lift one leg at a time and swing it forward. The light he pursued pulled farther away, dimmer with each step. His frustration magnified into panic.

  “Taawa! Help me. I want to go home!” Darkness swallowed the hideous images playing in his mind.

  A harsh cawing pierced the darkness. Tag’s head throbbed. A rock gouged into his back. He tried to move, but his body felt petrified, as if he had lain in the same spot for hundreds of years. Tag tried to open his eyes, but they felt glued shut. Pain zapped through his head with lightning force. Groaning, he forced his eyes open against the bright light.

  Where am I? Tag’s eyes filtered out the light, taking stock of his surroundings. A cave? He managed to roll from his back to his side. Cramping spasms volleyed through his body. How did he get here? Tag tried to remember, but his thoughts were mush.

  Got to get up. Tag managed to get to a sitting position. Every bone in his body creaked and ached.

  Sunlight bathed and refined the small cave. A natural shelf jutting out of the limestone wall was the only notable thing Tag saw. A pile of rocks lay on the shelf. A shrine?

  A memory bobbed above his pain. This is the cave that Dad is going to excavate. The memory of scaling up the cliff to the cave, with lightning zapping around him, was all too real. He remembered a blinding flash of lightning hitting inches from him, and thunder deafening him as he rolled into the cave’s entrance. Then what? His mind went blank.

  Why had he come to the cave? He searched through the pain in his brain. Something to do with a compass—that’s right. He came here to bury his Boy Scout compass for Dad to find while excavating. Pain ping-ponged against his skull. A child’s small dark face, with enormous brown eyes, appeared through his pain. Small Cub.

  Goose bumps rose up and down Tag’s arms. Small Cub? Who was Small Cub? He reached up to his T-shirt pocket for his compass. The compass was gone. The pocket was gone. Tag stared at the shirt. It wasn’t the hot pink T-shirt he remembered putting on this morning, but a pale yellow, button-down dress shirt streaked with dirt and dust.

  “What is going on here?” Tag’s words echoed around the small cave. His shoes weren’t his either, but some out-dated, canvas tennis shoes without his fluorescent shoelaces. The blue jeans weren’t the ones he had put on this morning.

  “I must be going crazy, or maybe being so close to the lightning fried my brain.” Panic drummed along with his pain. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

  Scaling down the cliff, Tag suddenly felt as if he were in a recurring nightmare. His heart hammered, his breath came in short gulps, but his feet and hands found the chiseled notches easily, too easily. The feeling that he had climbed the cliff a dozen times seized him. His head throbbed. Everything took on a nightmarish quality. If only he could think beyond the pain. There had to be a logical explanation. There always was, wasn’t there?

  “Questions, questions with no easy answers . . .” Tag’s scalp tightened. Where had he heard that before?

  Tag followed the path to where it forked. Confusion set in. Which way was it back to the Island Trail?

  “There must be an easy way up to the ruins—I mean the village.” A cold shiver snaked up Tag’s back. He knew he had said those words, but when?

  “What is wrong with me? The lightning’s electrical current must have short-circuited my brain.” Tag took the pathway leading up. “Or I am going nuts!”

  He reached the crest of the Island Trail. A girl with short blond hair, about ten years old and a bowlegged man, in a colorful cowboy shirt, crawled out of one of the T-shaped doors. “It’s just like walking back in time,” the girl said.

  “We have walked time back to when the ancient ones lived in the canyon,” the words resonated in Tag’s mind. A handsome, teenage, Hopi boy, wearing an eagle-shaped pendant, shot through Tag’s mind. The boy smiled. “I am glad that you tagged along with me.”

  “Let’s go in this ruin,” the man’s voice shattered the images in Tag’s mind.

  “Look Dad. Someone used this big rock to grind corn on.”

  The bowlegged man moved next to his daughter. “You’re right, whoever it was had a great view while grinding.”

  “It’s Littlest Star’s metate,” the words flew out of Tag’s mouth.

  “Who?” The girl wore a purple, Phoenix Suns, Western Division Champions T-shirt. Her big, blue eyes stared at him.

  Tag felt his face getting hot. “I—I don’t know.”

  “Are you okay?” The man moved toward Tag.

  Tag hurried up the path.

  “Dad, that is the curly-headed boy on the poster that we saw at the Visitor Center. The poster said he’s been missing for . . .”

  Tag didn’t hear the rest because vivid images and memories now overwhelmed him. Familiar names, faces and memories reached out from each ruin he passed. A hump-backed man, Arrow Maker, handed him a crude, but sharp, obsidian knife. “You will earn the knife . . .”

  “I don’t have a knife,” Tag cried, hurrying on.

  Three steps farther, the apparition of two rough boys formed clearly in his mind. They wore dirty overalls without shirts. “Looks like we are just in time for lunch, Kern.”

  “But first, Horace, we got a skinny skunk to kill.”

  Fear swept through Tag, although he didn’t know anyone named Kern or Horace.

  At the next T-shaped door, the apparition of a one-armed man appeared in Tag’s mind. “Come boy. You are obviously very knowledgeable about Indian artifacts . . .”

  A fa
t, round man in a blue polo shirt, sneered at him. “He is the legendary ghost boy . . .”

  Tag began running—stumbling, as each memory came on top of another. Each one was clearer than the last. An ancient man, wearing a long red kilt and beaded skullcap, pointed a wooden staff at him. “My son, now is the time for you to do that which you were sent to do.”

  A young man in khaki fatigues, with a mason’s trowel in hand, laughed. “You’d make up names of people who lived in every ruin, if we let you.”

  Tag ran faster.

  “You are under arrest for pothunting.” The copper-haired ranger aimed his revolver at him in a crystal clear memory.

  “I must have been knocked unconscious or something,” Tag whispered. His reason and logic battled the memories that drifted from one time period to another, one person to another with extraordinary clarity. His legs became marshmallows, while his stomach cramped up in a hungry, nervous knot. If only he could make it home to Dad.

  Tag jerked to a stop. Home—Dad. The thought penetrated below his conscious level to something hidden deep within the caves of his mind. He closed his eyes. The Hopi boy appeared again.

  “The veil is falling from your memory. Tag, let it fall. Trust your memories and be true to them.”

  Tag opened his eyes and studied the two homes nestled alone under a long ledge. A small boy’s laughter drifted out of one of the T-shaped doors.

  “Taawa, help me!” His own words startled him.

  Taawa?

  Someone was coming up the path. Tag ducked into one of the houses. An acrid smell filled his nose as memories swirled around him like thick smoke. The cry of an infant filled his ears.

  Tag whirled around to the front wall. In the mud plaster, he saw the ancient handprints that he had seen a hundred times before while exploring the ruins. They were small, women’s sizes. All except one pair, that looked monstrous with it’s long thin fingers. A shiver ran up Tag’s back. He remembered clearly the day the oversized prints had been made hundreds of years ago.

  His heart thundered as Tag slipped his hand into his own print once more. The memories of walking time filled every corner of his mind, confirming what he now knew in his heart. Great Owl, Flute Maiden, White Badger, Sean O’Farrell, Major John Wesley Powell, Ranger William Pierce, Dr. and Mrs. Colton, Daniel, Michael T. O’Farrell, and Gary O’Farrell—he remembered them all in sharp detail. He had met them, talked with them, shared with them, and learned from them. Each of them had touched his life and his heart. The images of his adventures with Walker swirled in his mind.