Tag Against Time (21 page)

So what's the great mystery?” Tag asked, looking at the Indian boy sitting next to him under the pine tree at the rim of the canyon. He decided Walker Talayesva was just an Indian, not a hippie. His leather clothes weren't ornamental, but worn, from hard use. He wore a necklace. Not love beads though, just a turquoise pendant shaped like a bird, hanging on an old thin leather string. Walker was more mysterious than the canyon, especially his eyes, which were so dark brown they were almost black. When they peered at Tag, they seemed endless, timeless, yet soul-penetrating. Tag was sure secrets lay hidden within those eyes.

“The bahanas, the whites, named the ancient people that lived here
Sinagua
.” Walker spoke with some sort of an accent, and he grouped his words in short phrases. “Sinagua is a Spanish word meaning
without water
, which is a good name since they didn't have much water. Their mouths thirsted always. But what did
they
call themselves?
Did they even have a name for themselves?” Walker asked.

His words brought the hair on Tag's neck up. “I'm sure they didn't have a written language, so it's impossible to know that.”

“Where did they come from?” Walker paused, waiting for an answer. His eyes searched Tag's face as if he were looking into his heart.

Tag shrugged, thinking,
I can't even answer that about myself, let alone about some old, dead Indians
.

Something in Walker's eyes gave Tag the impression that he had just seen his thought.
Impossible! This guy is strung out on something
. Tag studied Walker's face.
Maybe he is a hippie after all, on a bad trip
.

The corners of Walker's mouth curved. His eyes sparkled. “Why did the ancient ones leave their cliff homes?” he asked, not breaking eye contact. “Where did they go and why?”

“Ask a Park Ranger!” Tag snapped. This guy was a real pain. He jumped to his feet and stomped off. “I've got to go.”

“Questions, questions with no easy answers.”

Tag swung around. “What did you say?”

“The answers are
all
here. The canyon holds all the answers.”

“Who are you anyway?” Tag stood, hands on his hips, glaring at Walker. “Where did you come from?”

“I live in a village on the Hopi mesas.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Like you, I'm searching for answers.”

“About what?”

Walker stood up. Shorter than Tag, he looked up into his eyes. “The past, the present, and the future—isn't that what
we all are seeking the answers to?” He turned and walked away.

Tag watched him disappear into the thick trees, moving without a sound. Something within urged Tag to run after him, stop him, and shake him until he explained his stupid riddles. Instead, he whipped around and tromped back to the trailer. Anger and hurt churned with each step.

“Where are the Hopi mesas?”

Gary sat on the vinyl couch with his leg propped up on the heavy coffee table. He was up and about now, on a limited basis. Gary put down his book. “They are about ninety miles northeast of here. Actually, there are three mesas where the Hopi live. It's a reservation.”

“What are they like, the Hopi?” Tag looked out the trailer window into the forest.

“Very traditional. Their pueblo villages are hundreds of years old. Going there is like walking back in time. They have religious dances, Kachina dances, which have been performed for centuries. There are four books about the Hopi on the bookshelf next to my bed, under the law books. You are welcome to read them.”

Mr. O'Farrell walked in from the kitchen with a half-peeled potato in one hand and knife in the other. “Why the sudden interest in the Hopi?”

Tag squirmed in his chair. “I met someone today who mentioned them.”

The next morning, Tag plopped down under the same tree. The sky was cloudless, the air comfortable. He leaned against the tree and closed his eyes. Drowsiness weighed his
eyes down. The books on the Hopi Indians were so fascinating that he had read until past three
A.M
. Now, the buzz of bees lolled him, and the sun covered him like a blanket. He fought to keep his eyes open. The peaceful minutes flew by like a butterfly. Tag closed his eyes.

Out of the grayness of his sleep, a fragile, old man appeared. He leaned on an intricately-carved staff. His long white hair spilled over his thin, rounded shoulders. A multicolored, beaded skullcap covered his old head. A long red kilt reached his knobby knees. His thin chest was bare, except for a fist-sized, seashell pendant. “The answers to all of your questions are here, within the walls of the canyon.” His almond eyes shimmered like pools of time. “My speckled son, you must search for them.” He lifted his staff at Tag. “Trust and search.”

Something tickled Tag's nose. He jerked and reached up with his hand up to brush it off. A fly sang in his ear. He opened his eyes. Sunlight gleamed around the leather-clad figure standing next to him. Tag stumbled up. “Walker, I'm glad you came back. I—I—I'm sorry about yesterday.” He jammed his hands deep into his pockets. “I read about your people last night. Is it true that you Hopis dance with rattlesnakes in your mouths?”

“Yes, but only the snake priests perform the sacred rite.”

“Have you ever seen anyone one get bitten before?”

Walker laughed and shook his head. He cocked a dark eye brow. “Questions?”

“Yeah, I have more than my share of questions.” A lump rose in Tag's throat.

“Questions with no easy answers . . .” Walker took a deep breath and blew it out. “We all have such questions.” He
began walking. Tag followed. “The answers are around, if one just looks for them.”

The morning grew into afternoon. Tag exhausted his questions regarding the Hopi; their ways, beliefs, and villages. Walker patiently answered them as they explored the rim of the canyon. They went full circle, and now sat under the tree where they had started.

“I'd really like to go to your village and meet your family,” Tag said. His legs ached from hiking along the steep, rocky rim. With all his questions about the Hopi people, his other questions—those about himself—were forgotten. For the first time since he woke up in the hospital, he felt the fingers of depression slipping away. Life looked almost livable. “Are you going back today?”

Walker picked a blade of grass and rolled it between his fingers. “No.”

“I've got to go into Flagstaff with the O'Farrells today. They are the people I'm—visiting. Maybe we can meet again tomorrow morning.”

Walker smiled and nodded.

“You have a spark of spunk in your eyes.” Mr. O'Farrell put a loaf of bread into the grocery cart. “I know getting out of the trailer helps. Cabin fever gets me, too. Well, we need to bring Gary into therapy every afternoon for the next few weeks. That will help.”

Tag pushed the cart along. “If you don't need me, could I stay at the canyon some of the days?”

“Sure, if you'd rather be alone.”

“I won't be alone,” the words slipped out. Tag saw surprise,
then concern spread across Mr. O'Farrell's weathered face. “I—I—well, I made a friend.”

“Oh?”

“His name is Walker. He's Hopi.”

Mr. O'Farrell put three cans of tuna fish into the cart. “Really?”

“He told me all about his people today. When a Hopi baby's umbilical cord falls off, the father ties it on a stick with a string and eagle feathers around it.” Tag pointed to the ceiling. “He places it in the roof over the front door of their home, so the baby will always know where his heart started and where it belongs. Neat, isn't it? Of course, the traditional Hopi homes are open-beamed with natural insulation, like brush and branches woven in between the beams. Did you know that they
dragged
logs for the original roof beams from the San Francisco Peaks hundreds of years ago?”

“Can't say that I did.” Mr. O'Farrell's intense eyes searched Tag's face.

“We're going to meet again tomorrow, if that's okay. You'd like Walker. You've never met anyone like him before.”

Mr. O'Farrell scratched his beard. “He must be something if he can put the spunk back into you.”

Walker was waiting under the tree the next morning. He stood, brushing off his leggings. “I thought the bed wouldn't let you out,” he teased.

“I'm sorry. It was my turn to fix breakfast. Now, about the Indians that lived in the canyon,” Tag started walking. “Do you know anything about them?”

“Oh, just a bit,” Walker answered.

The pattern took root. Tag hurried in the mornings to meet
Walker. They spent the morning roaming the ruins and the forest. In the afternoons, if Tag didn't go to Flagstaff, they hiked for miles around the area. Tag felt secure, but free, with Walker, who asked no questions. Tag's worries, confusion, and frustrations abated when he was with Walker.

Only during the nights, with Mr. O'Farrell snoring in the bunk above him, did the reality of his predicament taunt him to tears. Who was he? What was his real name? Didn't his parents love him? What had he done to make them abandon him? How could the world seem completely out of sync? Why couldn't he remember anything at all? In the darkness of the nighttime, Tag kept track of the days, and prayed that Mr. O'Farrell could extend his custody rights past the thirty days. What would happen if he couldn't?

After a week, Mr. O'Farrell asked to meet Walker. Tag felt nervous with Mr. O'Farrell walking beside him through the pines. “I know you will like Walker, but . . . but,” he stopped.

“But what?” Mr. O'Farrell asked, marching along in his usual stride.

Tag hurried to catch up with him. “Walker dresses funny, sort of like a hippie, but he's not one. He has long hair, but it's just because he's a traditional Hopi.”

Mr. O'Farrell stopped and put his hand on Tag's shoulder. “Son, I don't care if his hair is sky-blue-pink and his skin is green. No one has ever accused me of being prejudiced. I just want to meet this young man who has brought you back to life.”

Walker grasped Mr. O'Farrell's hand, meeting its firmness with his own. “Sir.”

Tag saw a startled look on Mr. O'Farrell's face when he
looked into Walker's dark eyes. “It is nice to meet you. Tag talks about nothing else but you.”

Walker laughed. “Yes, he does talk a lot, doesn't he?”

Mr. O'Farrell chuckled and shook his head. “Yes he does, but only since he met you. We'd like you to come to dinner tonight.” A time was set, and Mr. O'Farrell marched off back to the trailer.

Tag knew that Walker had cast his mysterious spell over Mr. O'Farrell too. He wondered how the more cautious Gary would take to Walker.

That night, Walker and Gary discussed Walnut Canyon and its ancient people. When Gary elaborated on the artifacts found in the burial sites, Tag watched a strange sadness fill Walker's eyes. Walker stared off as if he were hundreds of miles, or years, away. Suddenly, Tag became aware that Mr. O'Farrell was scrutinizing Walker. Tag's scalp tightened.