Walker of Time (18 page)

“Now you must learn to hunt,” Náat had said, putting the weapon in Walker's eager hand. That first rabbit stick had been small and had fit perfectly in his chubby hand. It, too, had been brown and white. Pointing to the black rabbit designs painted on the ends of the stick, Náat explained, “The rabbit spirits drawn here will call to our brothers the rabbit. If you hunt with a pure heart and happy thoughts, brother rabbit will hear these spirits calling him. Then it will come out of its burrow to see who is summoning it and our cooking pot will never be empty.”

Hour after hour under Náat's firm supervision, Walker practiced with his rabbit stick. The stick was heavy and hard to throw, but soon Walker's arm grew strong enough to hurl it a good distance. Náat had insisted that he continue to practice long after all the other small boys grew tired and went to play other games. Walker's quickness and aim became much better than those of others his age. By the time he was seven years old, their cooking pot was never empty. However, it had been a good while since Walker had used his adult-size rabbit stick.

Now Walker saw a quick, hopping movement out of the corner of his eye. Just as fast, Walker brought his body around. With a powerful flick of his wrist, he caught the creature in midair with the stick he had borrowed from Son of Great Bear, bringing it down.

Examining the dead game, White Badger exclaimed, “This one is so fat, it will help fill two pots. You are in tune with Son of Great Bear's stick now.”

Walker nodded with a smile. “Each weapon has its own spirit—its own way,” he said, repeating the words he had heard his uncle say many times.

“I have not seen this many rabbits for many moons. Our prayers are indeed being answered this day,” White Badger said, putting the kill in his bag. “If we see bigger game, let us hope that we are both in tune with our bows. My people have not tasted venison for many moons.”

“Fresh venison would be great,” Walker agreed, touching the beautifully carved bow hanging on his shoulder. Last evening, when Great Owl had placed it in his hands, his heart had jumped into his throat. The bow was identical to the one that Náat had so painstakingly carved for him when he was ten years old. The carefully painted animal designs matched those on his bow at home, and lifting the bow, Walker had discovered that even its weight and balance felt the same in his hand. The haunting feeling had washed over his body in a great wave.

Warm memories of the many hours spent with Náat learning to use his bow had filled Walker's swimming head. He had felt Náat's strong, loving arms around his shoulders as he taught Walker to aim properly. He had heard Náat's words of so long ago: “With the rabbit stick you will fill the cooking pot. With such a bow, you shall . . .” These vivid memories had been shattered and dissolved by Tag's worried voice calling him back to the present.

Now in the hot midmorning sun, as he walked beside White Badger, the words again echoed in Walker's mind. “With such a bow you shall . . .” What was the last part?
He tried to remember all the words that Náat had said that day many years ago. Another rabbit leaped out three feet in front of them. Two hunting sticks whirled through the air. Walker's stick hit the rabbit. White Badger's stick flew a mere inch over the falling animal's head.

“I think we should turn back now,” White Badger said, putting the last rabbit in the bag. “I don't think it is wise to be away from the village very long.” Patting the bag, his eyes twinkled. “These will flavor many stew pots tonight.”

Walker chuckled. “I am sure Tag will appreciate having rabbit stew.”

As they retraced their steps, the two talked. Walker felt at ease with White Badger. Their words flowed like smooth water and refreshed his weary mind. He found himself telling White Badger about his people so far away. He described his village, leaving out the twentieth-century inventions and luxuries that White Badger would not comprehend. White Badger listened intently, accepting everything that was said. The minutes passed quickly. Walker felt the bond between them grow stronger with each step. Was White Badger the one he should teach first about the Kachinas living so near on the sacred mountain? Walker found himself wondering. He felt sure that White Badger would listen with an open heart and mind.

“My throat is as dry as the ground we walk on,” said White Badger as he stopped and wiped the sweat from his face.

“Mine, too,” agreed Walker. He untied the leather thong across his chest that held a ceramic canteen about the size and shape of a large cucumber. The thong threaded through circular handles near each rounded end of the canteen. It
was white with bold, black wave designs in a style that Walker had seen often on Hopi pottery. The canteen was capable of carrying almost half a quart of water. Walker handed it to White Badger. “You made the first kill.”

With the canteen resting in one hand, White Badger pulled the carved wooden stopper out of the narrow opening at the top of the canteen with his other hand. Holding a rounded end in each hand, White Badger brought the canteen to his lips. “You made the last.” He closed his eyes and drank deeply.

As he waited for his turn, Walker scanned the horizon. The sun beat down directly overhead, leaving no shadows. Everything looked flat, harsh, unreal, like a painted backdrop on a stage. His eyes skipped right past the large, still, brown shape twelve feet to the east. Then something in his mind clicked. His eyes backtracked. His heart began pounding in his ears.

Without a sound, he eased the bow off his shoulder with one hand, while the other drew out an arrow. With the arrow in place, Walker drew back the sinew string with all his strength.

“With such a bow, you will . . .” Náat's words filled his mind.

Walker aimed the crude but sharp arrowhead on the end of the straight, gamble oak wood shaft.

“With such a bow, you will . . .”

The huge buck stared in Walker's direction. Its proud head was held high, and its magnificent six-point rack pointed to the sky. Its large, dark eyes rested on Walker.

The air was filled with the whistling sound of the arrow. As Walker watched its flight, the arrow seemed to move
through the air in slow motion. The seconds became centuries—one hundred years . . . three hundred years . . . five hundred years . . . seven hundred years . . .

The arrow's deadly projectile penetrated the huge buck's heart.

“With such a bow you will win the hearts of your people . . .” Náat's voice rang in Walker's ears.

Walker shifted the end of the thick pole they had cut from a dying pinyon pine from his right shoulder to his left. The buck's feet were lashed to the pole, its head and back hanging almost to the ground. White Badger and Walker each carried one end of the pole, with White Badger leading the way. They had hauled the kill less than a quarter of a mile, but Walker's back and shoulders ached. His body glistened with sweat. His mouth was parched. The weight of the buck seemed to increase with each short step.

As they neared the first of the cornfields, Walker felt sure that some of the men working there would offer to help carry the heavy buck down into the canyon.
An offer too good to refuse
, he thought, reaching up to wipe the sweat off his forehead.

“Something is wrong,” White Badger said, stopping at the edge of the first field. It was empty except for the wind gently rustling among the long, wilted corn leaves. Walker could see that the next field was also abandoned. White
Badger set off again, taking the shortest possible route across the dying field.

Walker could feel White Badger's tension and could smell sweat, deer hide, and death in the air. There were no workers in any of the fields they passed. Walker began to feel his own anxiety build. White Badger walked even faster. Walker followed, trying not to stumble under the heavy load.

The man standing guard at the trail head had his back toward them. He was leaning on his spear, his shoulders sagging, his head slumped forward.

“Fast Lizard,” White Badger called, waving.

The man whirled around. He raised his hand in welcome. Within seconds, he stood next to White Badger. “The gods must have been with you today,” he said, helping them lower the buck to the ground. Kneeling down beside the magnificent creature, he inspected it. In disbelief he shook his head. “Whose arrow made the kill?”

“Walker's,” White Badger stated. “The men aren't working the field.” His eyes questioned.

Fast Lizard looked up, his faced lined with worry and crisscrossed with grief. “Much has happened in the few hours that you have been gone.” Standing up he reported, “With the first rays of sun, Masau'u crept into our village, stalking every family with a swift and painful death.” He clenched his spear. His knuckles turned white. His dark eyes spoke of personal lost. “He has claimed three spirits already: Gray Dove's mother, the youngest daughter of Scar Cheek and Littlest Star, and . . .” Fast Lizard's voice faltered, “my nephew, Running Boy.”

“Your loss is great,” White Badger said, touching Fast Lizard's shoulder. Walker could tell by White Badger's tight face that each life lost was a personal blow to him also.

“Many of our oldest and our youngest lie in Masau'u's fingertips,” finished Fast Lizard. Fear etched deep lines in his anxious face. “My son—I am worried that he will . . .” He couldn't finish.

White Badger nodded in understanding. “We will leave the meat here. I will send some men up for it as soon as I can. I will have them bring word of your son to you.” In White Badger's eyes, Walker saw the overpowering worry that he felt burning in his own heart.

Walker trotted close behind White Badger down the steep, rocky trail. His heart hammered against his chest. The now familiar names of the dead tore at his heart.
He stalks every family
 . . . 
our oldest
 . . . 
our youngest
 . . . the words repeated themselves in Walker's mind. Who else was dying? Walker's frightened thoughts raced with his feet. Great Owl? Singing Woman? Morning Flower's newborn daughter? Walker's throat tightened in fear.

Nearing the first group of cliff dwellings, they could hear the sounds of mournful crying. White Badger and Walker slowed their pace to a fast walk. The usually busy path was desolate, abandoned. The smell of death swirled out of the first and third doors.

White Badger's feet moved faster. At the next set of homes, the intonation of a grieving song reached Walker's ears. The sorrowful words were almost exactly the same ones that he had sung at his Uncle's death. Walker's throat constricted so much that he couldn't swallow.

The trail seemed to go on forever. The minutes seemed like years. Death and fear drifted in the air like a mist of fog. Drawing near Great Owl's home, Walker's feet felt as if they were lead.

Son of Great Bear met them at his door. His face was
ashen and pinched in the harsh sunlight. “White Badger, it is good you are back. Many of our people are dying, dying fast.” He looked toward Walker. “Gray Wolf is crying witchcraft to anyone that will listen.”

“We will deal with that when we must. Our family?” White Badger asked, his voice laced tight with fear.

“Great Owl and Flute Maiden are out doing what they can for the others in the village,” Son of Great Bear reported. “Morning Flower and the baby are doing well, so far. But Small Cub . . .” His voice broke, and his shoulders heaved. “He's sick, so sick that I don't know if . . .”

White Badger put his arms around his brother-in-law and held him close. Walker could see enormous pain in his eyes as he hugged Son of Great Bear. The aching pain tightened Walker's throat so hard that it seemed air couldn't get through. Tears pricked his eyes.

“He's at Great Owl's fire,” Son of Great Bear said, easing out of White Badger's arms. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Flute Maiden said it would be best to keep him separated from Morning Flower and the baby. Morning Flower didn't want to be parted from him, but Flute Maiden was firm. Tag is inside with him now.”

At the mention of Tag's name, Walker's heart flip-flopped with relief. He turned, took three quick steps, placed his hands on the stone ledges, stooped, and crawled into Great Owl's home.

The smell of diarrhea, vomit, and death met his nose. His empty stomach reeled. His head began to swirl. Walker held his breath and struggled to see in the dim light.

Tag knelt by Small Cub, who was lying near the small cooking fire. Tag was wiping the sick child's head with a wet cloth. Hearing Walker's footstep, he looked up.

His freckles stood out on his pale, worried face. “Walker! Boy, am I glad you're back. Small Cub is . . .” Tag gulped, unable to continue.

Walker crossed and knelt beside Tag. Small Cub's little face burned with fever; beads of sweat stood on his forehead. His eyes were closed. Walker stroked the boy's hot, sunken cheek. He groaned and turned his head away, mumbling indistinguishable words.