Tag Against Time (25 page)

“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 fat, 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.

“Walker of Time,” he whispered, his hand still resting in his ancient mud print.

Walker appeared clearly in Tag's eyes and mind. Wearing his eagle pendant, a loincloth, and sandals, he stood on the rim of a pink mesa. White clouds billowed behind him. Flute Maiden stood beside him, her body swollen huge with a child about to be born. “No wonder you were in hurry to get back,
Walker,” Tag said. “I told you Flute Maiden had a crush on you.” Peace enveloped his heart as he saw the love in both of their eyes. “You made it home, old buddy. Home to Hopi.”

Walker's voice vibrated within the ancient walls, “Remember me, remember my people. You must now see with your heart, as well as with your new sight, my friend. We still need your help.” Walker's face began to fade.

“Don't leave Walker! What new sight? Tell me Walker, what new sight?” Tag cried, pressing his hand against the print in the wall with all his strength, straining to see Walker's fading face through his tears. His heart felt like it was cracking in two. “Walker, please, I just want to go ho . . .”

“Tag!”

His dad's loving voice reached through Tag's fears and pain, bringing him home at last.