Walker of Time (6 page)

He now could see the beady eyes in the snake's black-masked face. Its coiled, olive-yellow body was covered with leopardlike black designs. Six rattles shook on its black-tipped tail.

“Great Taawa, forgive your son for using the holy paho to kill my brother the snake,” prayed Walker, moving closer. “Guide my hand . . . and the friendly bahana's, too.”

The girl's humming seemed to echo Walker's silent prayer. Her eyes were still closed tight. She seemed unaware of him.

Walker could hear Tag moving right behind him. Holding the paho out before him, he crouched down, almost kneeling forward. He started to move the prayer stick back and forth. Its eagle feathers fluttered gently in the hot air. With each cautious step, Walker twisted, turned, and swayed the paho. An age-old song rose within him. In deep, throaty tones, he sang the sacred words that had been sung for hundreds of years by the Hopi Snake Priests as they sought rain for their crops.

Walker's eyes focused on the coils just a foot or so before him. The snake's masked head bolted around to face him, its blind eyes seared toward him. The snake's forked tongue darted in and out, licking the scents in the air. The eagle feathers danced. The snake's eyes jerked from Walker's face to the paho. Its head followed the dancing movement of its enemy's feathers as it came closer and closer, inch by inch.

Walker's heart hammered against his chest. Only the sacred words of the ancient prayer song that he sang prevented total fear from invading his body and soul. As he twisted and turned the paho in his shaking hand, the eagle feathers danced with a simple grace, luring the rattlesnake's complete attention.

Walker felt Tag's quick movement beside him. The football-sized rock came smashing down toward the snake. The ancient song died in Walker's throat as the snake's head was crushed.

“Taawa, thank you,” Walker prayed silently. He looked up at the girl. Staring down at the dead snake, her almond-shaped, black eyes were wide with astonished confusion.

She was about Walker's age. Her beautiful oval face was thin with full lips and high cheek bones. Straight bangs hung just above her dark, expressive eyebrows. Her waist-length, blue-black hair glistened in the bright sunshine. She wore a short shirt of yellow handwoven cloth. Draped over
her right shoulder was a loose-fitting yellow mantle that came down to the top of her skirt. She wore a thin, white shell bracelet around her left wrist. A strand of very small turquoise beads hung around her graceful neck.

Watching the girl's lovely but terrified face staring down at the snake, Walker stood upright. The girl's eyes flashed up from the snake into his eyes. The haunting feeling washed over Walker in a huge wave. His head felt dizzy, out of focus. There seemed to be no air in his lungs.

The girl's eyes filled with a new type of fear. She bolted down the trail. Walker gulped for air and started after her before she could get far.

“Sewa—little sister,” Walker said in Hopi, reaching out touching her shoulder. “We come in peace.”

The girl stopped. She turned, looking up into Walker's eyes. Again the mysterious feeling came over Walker. Deep inside he knew that in some way, this beautiful young girl was a part of the reason he had walked time.

“Thank you for killing the snake,” she said, looking down at her sandals. Her voice was quiet yet strong, with a musical quality to it. Her words were strange but very Hopi sounding. Yet deep in his mind the language was familiar; Walker could understand what she was saying.

Without looking up she asked, “Who are you people?”

Walker smiled. “Hopi.”

“Hopi?” asked the girl, bringing up her eyes.

“Yes. It means People of Peace. We live on the tall mesas northeast of the sacred mountain.” Walker found himself somehow speaking the words in the girl's own language.

The girl nodded, again lowering her eyes.

“Hey, Walker, what did she say?” Tag asked. It had
taken him a minute or two to pull himself back together after smashing the snake.

At the sound of Tag's voice, the girl jerked her head up. Walker realized that she was seeing the bahana for the first time. Her eyes widened as she looked at his freckled face. A smile crept across her lips. She stared at Tag's curly, wild hair. A giggle escaped her mouth. She quickly covered her mouth with her hand and lowered her eyes.

“Is he Hopi, too?”

“No. Tag is bahana, white. He is a friend. He is the one who smashed the snake,” Walker said, nodding at Tag.

Moving down next to Walker, Tag asked, “What did she say?”

“She said thank you for killing the snake,” Walker replied, still looking at the girl.

“Nothing to it, just like you said,” stated Tag, grinning down at the pretty girl next to him. “Who is she? How can you understand her?”

“Her language is almost like Hopi.” Walker was glad that Tag hadn't asked how he knew how to speak this strange yet familiar language. He didn't know himself.

Walker asked, “What are you called?”

The girl looked up. “Len'-mah-nah.”

The hair on the back of Walker's neck prickled. He felt the blood drain out of his face. He looked back at the snake. “Her name is Flute Maiden,” Walker managed to say.

At the strained sound of Walker's voice, Tag turned to him. “Are you okay? You look a bit shaky all of a sudden.”

“I'm okay. It is just that the Flute Maidens are the holy ones that . . . that . . . They are deeply involved with the snake dance. They—Oh, I'll explain it all later.” Walker felt
flustered, almost angry. He wished the bahana would quit asking questions. Turning to Flute Maiden, he said, “I'm Walker, and this is Tag.”

Flute Maiden nodded. Her face became serious, her voice low. “The men are guarding the trails into the canyon. They are not letting any traders or people from other places in. How did you get here?”

“We came by lightning,” answered Walker.

He saw Flute Maiden's eyes grow large again. She stared back at the dead snake. She looked back at Walker. Her eyes fell upon the eagle pendant hanging on his bare chest. She drew in her breath, biting her bottom lip. Her searching eyes quickly dropped to Walker's feet.

What was she looking at? wondered Walker. Feeling uncomfortable, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Was she staring at his moccasins or maybe the red birthmark on his right ankle? He shifted his feet again.

Flute Maiden gazed back into Walker's eyes. A gentle smile played on her lips. She nodded her head slightly. “You must be very careful,” she said in almost a whisper. “Times are dangerous, very dangerous for our people. That is why no one but our own are allowed in the canyon. Come, we cannot stay here. It is not safe.” Flute Maiden turned, and hurried down the trail.

“Come on, Tag. She says it's dangerous here,” Walker said, starting after her.

“Dangerous? What could be more dangerous than rattlesnakes?” Tag asked, his hands on his hips. He looked at the snake, then at the two hurrying down the trail. Waving his hand, he called, “Hey, wait for me. By the way, did she say what was for lunch?”

Within fifty feet, Flute Maiden left the trail and went into a thin clump of weathered pine trees. Dry pine needles fell on Walker as he pushed through the boughs. On the other side of the trees, Walker could see that they were on another path of some kind. Flute Maiden moved quickly over the rocks and around the sage and cacti in her way. But Walker had to watch his footing. They were climbing upward again. By the general direction they were taking, he knew that they must be doubling back toward the cliff dwellings.

“Where in the heck are we going?” asked Tag. His foot slipped on a rock. It went rolling down the side of the canyon. “They must have better trails than this to get to the ruins—I mean their homes.”

“This must be a back entrance of some kind. I don't think many people go this way.” Walker said, looking back at Tag.

“I can see why!”

“Shhh,” hissed Flute Maiden as she stopped and turned toward them, shaking her head. Looking at Tag's big grin, she shrugged her shoulders. She scrambled up and over a limestone ledge and disappeared.

Wiping the sweat off his forehead, Tag whispered, “Just like a mountain goat.”

“Naw—she just doesn't have big feet like you bahanas. Come on, let's go before we get lost,” Walker said, starting to climb up the steep ledge.

“Get lost! We are zapped back in time, seven hundred and umpteen years, and he's worried about getting lost.”

Reaching the top of the ledge, Walker saw Flute Maiden standing at the base of a deep limestone overhang. She motioned for him to hurry. Behind him, he could hear Tag muttering something about getting lost.

When he reached Flute Maiden, Walker saw a single mud-and-rock dwelling built under the limestone overhang. Without speaking, Flute Maiden slipped into the narrow doorway. Walker wiped the sweat off his forehead as he waited for Tag. For having such long legs, he sure did not move very fast, thought Walker. Seeing Tag almost trip, he realized that Tag was not really slow, just clumsy. Walker chuckled. Around all these steep cliffs, though, just being clumsy could be very dangerous.

“I've never seen this ruin—I mean house before,” Tag exclaimed, catching up with Walker. “I know I would remember it since it is out here all alone. Most ruins—I mean houses—were built in small clusters. This one must not have
survived all the years,” Tag said, bending almost in half to follow Walker through the low door.

When Walker's eyes adjusted to the semidarkness, he could see that the room was very small, only about five feet by three feet. The air was cool and dry.

“Walker, this ruin doesn't smell like the rest of the ruins—it doesn't smell lived in or even old,” Tag said, moving in next to Walker.

“It's a storage room.” Walker pointed with his chin, “Look.”

Brownware jars of different sizes were lined up against the back wall. The largest jars were about three feet tall and a good yard wide in the middle. The smallest jars were about ten inches high and a few inches wide. Large one- to three-foot-tall, plain yucca baskets lined the other walls.

“I bet this room probably didn't even survive the very earliest pot hunters,” said Tag, his eyes wide. “This is a pot hunter's grandest dream come true. Do you know how much just one of those jars or baskets would be worth on the black market today—I mean back in the future?”

“Shh,” answered Walker, sitting down on the dirt floor. His eyes followed Flute Maiden, who was searching among the baskets. She pulled out something, looked at it, shook her head, and returned it to the basket. She started to rummage through another basket.

Easing himself down next to Walker, Tag asked, “What's she doing?”

Walker didn't answer. The haunting feeling suddenly whirlwinded around him. He closed his eyes, letting the feeling sweep through his body. A vague image swirled around and started to take form in his mind.

The figure of a petite woman bending over one of the tallest baskets emerged in his mind. Her long, black hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck and hung almost to her hips. Straight, long bangs covered her high forehead. Her skirt, a soft reddish skin with small, white shells sewn around the bottom hem, came well above her knees. Two strands of tiny white shells wrapped around her slim neck. A loop of matching shells hung from her pierced ears.

The mysterious feeling pumped through Walker's entire body. In his mind's eye, he saw the strangely familiar woman stand up from one of the baskets with something in her hand. She turned toward Walker. Her kind, black eyes twinkled; her full lips smiled. Her voice was soft and loving. “Ahh, here it is . . .”

“Walker, Walker,” Tag's loud voice shattered the vivid images in Walker's mind. “Hey, what's the matter? Flute Maiden is talking to you.”

Walker's eyes flew open. Flute Maiden stood before him, holding a small piece of brown buckskin in one hand and a pair of sandals in the other. “Are you all right?” she asked. Her voice was like a soft breeze.