Walker of Time (9 page)

The breath caught in Walker's throat. He felt his eyes widen. A stone shrine stood in the center of the platform. It was almost identical to the shrines found in the Hopi's sacred underground ceremonial rooms called kivas.

The ancient ones' shrine stood about three and half feet off the ground. Its limestone slabs had been skillfully cut and mortared together to form a perfect two-foot-by-two-foot square with a flat top. A steplike shelf ran along the bottom of the shrine. Brightly colored prayer sticks adorned the shelf. Offerings made to what gods? wondered Walker.

At his next thought, a cold shiver ran through Walker's body. Was there a small hole dug into the top of the platform about six inches from the base of the shrine? Walker's mind raced; his heart hammered. Such a hole, which the Hopi called a “sipápu,” would mean that the ancient ones believed in the same creation story as the Hopi—a story that told how all peoples of the world had emerged into this world from just such a sipápu at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. How many other beliefs and traditions did these ancient people share with his people? Walker wondered, forcing his eyes to leave the stone shrine.

Gray Wolf stood on the right side of the shrine, his legs firmly planted. His arms were folded across his chest. His thin lips were pulled across his sharp teeth in a snarl.

White Badger stood on the left side of the rock shrine.
Walker could see tension in his body, but his strong face was controlled. His eyes moved over the crowd of men. He seemed to be making eye contact with each man as if to determine those that would follow him or be swayed by Gray Wolf.

Walker felt all eyes on him as he followed Scar Cheek, who was threading his way through the seated men. He tried to keep his back tall, his shoulders squared, his eyes aimed at Scar Cheek's long, black hair. His heart pounded in his throat; the sound echoed in his ears.

Great Taawa guide my thoughts, my words
 . . . Walker prayed.

He heard murmuring rippling through the crowd. “Witches . . . Two hearted . . . Snake charmers . . . Death!” The whispering grew like a great wave, growing more intense until it echoed off the canyon walls.

Scar Cheek stopped a few feet from the platform but motioned for the boys to continue. Walker advanced, Tag at his side. Stopping a foot from the base of the platform, Walker looked over at Tag. He stood tall and proud, but his freckles seemed to dance on his pale face. Small beads of sweat dotted his forehead. His fists were drawn up into tight balls. For an instant, their eyes met. In Tag's eyes, Walker saw the fear that he himself felt. He tried to smile, but his lips felt frozen.

Walker turned his head to the platform, searching the ground in front of the shrine. Six inches from the base of the shrine, he could just barely see the top of a small hole.
A sipápu!
Walker's knees felt weak.

Walker sensed Gray Wolf's eyes staring at him. He looked up to meet Gray Wolf's contemptuous yet pleased glare. If there had not been so much commotion, Walker was sure he would be able to hear him growling.

White Badger raised his spear in the air. A strained hush fell over the gathered men. White Badger's voice held authority when he spoke. “Great Owl, our Seer, has been told all concerning these strangers. Now he will see into their hearts.”

Flute Maiden was climbing up the stairs on the left side of the platform. A man, stooped with age, leaned on her arm. He climbed each step one at a time. Walker could not see the man's face. He wore a tight skullcap, decorated with thousands of small, colorful beads that glistened like a rainbow. Long, thin, snow-colored hair flowed down his stooped back. He wore a brilliant red, knee-length kilt, decorated with small, white shells. A fist-sized clam shell, studded with small, square pieces of turquoise, dangled on a leather thong around his thin neck. In his gnarled left hand was a long wooden staff. Walker could see intricate designs and lines carved into the thick staff. A calendar of some sort? wondered Walker.

Without warning, the mysterious feeling raged through every cell in Walker's body.
Great Owl, Great Owl
, the words swirled in Walker's mind. His eyes clamped shut, and his throat tightened in fear. He fought through the haunting feeling to get his breath. Struggling, he opened his eyes.

Great Owl stood in front of the shrine between Gray Wolf and White Badger. Leaning on his staff, he stared down at Walker. Never before had Walker seen such eyes. They were large, soft, brown pools of light that seemed to be able to penetrate deep into one's soul—or gaze into the most distant future.

Great Owl turned his eyes toward the freckled bahana. His thin lips formed in a straight line across his deeply wrinkled face. Walker saw his eyes twinkle as he looked
down at Tag's freckled face and curly hair. Walker thought he heard a soft chuckle when Great Owl's eyes stared down at Tag's skinny legs.

“Tell us what you see, old man,” Gray Wolf's voice snarled.

Great Owl's strong, smooth voice answered, “I see two thirsty mouths and two very empty stomachs.”

Gray Wolf lurched toward Great Owl, his fists clenched at his waist. “They are witches!”

Great Owl raised his staff at Gray Wolf, meeting his cold eyes. “I see two brave young men who risked their lives to save one of our women. I also see that they receive accusations and threats instead of welcome and thanks.”

“Look deeper, old man,” growled Gray Wolf. His face was twisted with anger. He jerked his body around, glaring into the crowd. Raising his spear, he screamed, “They are witches! They will destroy all of us!”

Great Owl's voice came like lightning. “I see Gray Wolf is afraid to accept the truth because the truth is not in harmony with his desire to seize power for himself.”

The air was hot, quiet—thick with tension. Gray Wolf's body trembled with rage as he stared into Great Owl's stolid face. Great Owl's eyes seemed to sear into Gray Wolf's soul. Walker sensed that everyone present was holding his breath just as he was.

Gray Wolf's shoulders began to slump. His eyes broke away. With a quick turn, he jumped off the platform and stormed out through the crowd. A few men stood up and followed him out of the wall's entrance.

Tag let out a long, deep breath. Walker looked over at him. He could tell that Tag more or less understood what had just happened.

“What is to be done with these strangers?” someone in the gathering called.

Great Owl held up his staff. It shook in his old hand. “What should have been done in the first place; welcome and feed these young men.” He lowered his arm. “They will stay at my home until our chief returns from his pilgrimage to the sacred mountain.” Great Owl leaned on his staff for support. He looked tired, but his voice was strong. He gazed down into Walker's eyes. “When Lone Eagle returns, all that must be done will be done.”

Lone Eagle . . . Lone Eagle . . . death
 . . . The haunting feeling swept through Walker's body. His knees swayed under him. His heart felt as if it had stopped.

The water was warm, but it soothed Walker's parched throat. He lowered the cup, made from a dried gourd. The fist-size, smooth gourd was still half full, and he was still thirsty. He knew that each precious drop of water had been carried up the steep canyon from the stream of water at the bottom. For as long as he could remember, he had hauled heavy water jugs up the high mesa to his home each day. He knew well the price paid in sweat for even such a small amount of water.

Walker passed the half-full gourd to Tag, who was sitting crossed-legged next him. In two large, noisy gulps, Tag drained the remaining water. Flute Maiden moved forward with a reddish-orange ceramic water jug and refilled the cup. With a smile, Tag guzzled down the second cup of water. Of course, Tag had never carried water any further than from the kitchen sink, Walker realized, watching the bahana drain the cup for a third time.
Here it will be different
.

Walker looked around Great Owl's mud-and-rock home. They sat a foot or so from the doorway on woven yucca mats in a semicircle facing the center of the home. The room was about fifteen feet long and eight feet deep. Even with a small cooking fire burning in the back of the room next to the limestone wall, the air was cool and dry. Smoke from the fire curled up the back wall, drifted along the rock ceiling and out the three air holes made in the stone wall above the T-shaped door.

Flute Maiden's and White Badger's older sister, Morning Flower, knelt by the smoky fire. Her intelligent eyes darted from her cooking to the men as she stirred something in a medium-sized gray pot. She was about twenty and looked a lot like Flute Maiden. Unlike her sister, Morning Flower seemed extremely shy. Walker wondered if this was because she was self-conscious about her body being swollen huge with pregnancy. Or was she just naturally withdrawn and timid? She did not live here with her father, Great Owl, but next door in her own home with her husband. Where was her husband? Walker wondered with a sudden uneasiness.

Morning Flower's young son, Small Cub, sat close to her. He was a friendly four-year-old with straight bangs and long blue-black hair that framed his quick-to-smile, square face. He wore nothing but a leather thong around his neck. A small white shell hung from the narrow thong. His large, curious, black eyes stared at them, his mouth shaped in a half-moon smile.

Walker studied the cooking area. Three fat, knee-high, plain ceramic jars of different shapes lined the back corner of the cooking pit. Each jar had a thin sheet of leather tied around its large opening. He guessed that at least one of
these containers stored dried corn that would be ground into cornmeal for cooking. The other jars might hold such things as pinyon nuts, acorns, walnuts, and pumpkin or squash seeds. Or perhaps they contained dried foods such as beans, prickly pear fruit, or yucca banana fruit. Walker knew that whatever was in the storage containers depended on what had been successfully grown or gathered from nature. These three jars would hold only enough food to feed Great Owl's family for a few weeks at the most. They must have other food storage nearby, Walker surmised. From all that he had seen of the canyon so far, he doubted very much that the ancient ones' storage rooms contained enough food for the coming winter.

Three white, tightly woven yucca baskets with bold black designs stood in front of the large pots. Each lidded basket was about twelve inches high and six inches around. Food seasonings such as wild mustard, dried onion, wild oregano, and salt were most likely kept in these baskets, Walker decided. The family's dishes, three neat stacks of ceramic pots, bowls, and mugs in various shades of white, gray, and reddish-orange, were placed near the baskets.

Every inch of the cooking area was utilized to its best advantage. The last bit of space against the back wall was taken up by two large, ceramic water jugs. These plain brown, five-gallon jugs were shaped like giant tortoise shells—flat on one side, rounded on the other. Each had a narrow, round opening at the top and was laced with a thick, leather shoulder strap.

In the room's opposite back corner was a stack of rolled-up mats, similar to the one Walker sat on. Even rolled up, these mats, he could tell, were longer and wider. They were probably used for sleeping on. A pile of varicolored
furs was neatly stacked on the mats. Blankets? Next to the sleeping mats sat three large, yellow baskets, about two feet tall, each with a distinctive design woven into it. They had wide, open mouths. Storage for clothing and other personal items? Since Flute Maiden had placed his backpack next to these baskets, Walker felt sure that they were.

Walker's heart suddenly filled with a wave of homesickness. Great Owl's home reminded him of Náat's one-room house. Only the barest essentials had been allowed. Anything else had been stored away in the small storage area next door till it was needed. “Live with only what you need today,” Náat had said many times. “It is the old way.”

How right you were, Uncle
, thought Walker, scanning the ancient ones' home.

The only sources of light in the room were the small cooking fire and sunshine through the doorway. With the mid-afternoon sun shining through the T-shaped opening, Walker could see quite well. He watched Tag glancing toward the cooking pit. Walker chuckled. The smells coming from the cooking pot were definitely not what the bahana was accustomed to.

“Flute Maiden, now that our visitors have quenched their thirst, we must see to their wounds,” Great Owl said, his voice soft and warm. He sat next to Walker, his old legs crossed in front of him. His staff lay beside him.

Flute Maiden nodded, moving to the sleeping mats. Reaching into one of the large baskets, she brought out a reddish colored fur and a small, stark white, ceramic bowl. As she knelt in front of Walker, he could see that the fur was an entire pelt from a small fox. Its legs and stomach had been stitched together. Its tail was folded and sewn
between its legs, making a neat little bag. Flute Maiden untied the leather thong around its neck. Reaching inside, she pulled out a small, leather pouch with a red, cotton drawstring through the top of it.