Tag Against Time (22 page)

Mr. O'Farrell escorted Walker out of the trailer at the end of the evening and didn't return for quite awhile. Warning bells went off in Tag's mind. Was Mr. O'Farrell cross-examining Walker, or was he telling Walker all about the
kid
with no past—no future?

Tag felt more alone and vulnerable than ever before. He glanced at the calendar. There were only ten days left of Mr. O'Farrell's custody. Then what would happen?

Tag stooped low. He placed his hands on the rock ledges at the base of the T-shaped door and half scooted, half crawled into the ruin. The pungent smell of time and decay filled his nose. The smell alone turned him off.

For the last week they had spent almost all their time in the canyon. Walker shared his view of what he thought life was like for the ancient Indians living in the cliff houses. He described pottery making, weaving, stone knapping, hunting, and even how the ancient ones plastered their walls with mud. Tag wasn't sure if Walker based his information on archaeological findings or just an overactive imagination, although, there were handprints in the mud plaster in some of the ruins. Walker came up with Indian names—Fawn, Littlest Star, Arrow Maker—for the people who lived in the cliff homes. It became a game, Walker making up such vivid details that Tag could almost see the things he described. It was interesting, fun, and a
good way to keep from thinking about the void in his own life.

But, Walker kept coming back to this particular ruin. He didn't say much, just stood in the middle of the ruin as if something was going to happen. It was verging on creepiness.

Now, Walker again stood in the middle of the ruin. His shoulders slumped over, hands clenched at his side, his eyes closed.

“Walker, are you okay?”

Walker squared his shoulders, opened his eyes and smiled.

Tag plopped down on the limestone floor. “What is it about this ruin that keeps drawing you back? We've been here a dozen times in the last week.”

“Your answers are
here
.” Walker's normally calm voice had an edge of agitation. “Time is running out for you and for me. The others are waiting—yours for you, mine for me. Now, close your eyes. You must try to see those who lived here.”

“Sometimes you are downright weird, do you know that, Walker? Okay, okay.” Tag closed his eyes. The cool air felt close—stale. He peeked out of one eye. Walker clutched the pendant on his chest. His eyes clamped shut, and every inch of his handsome face strained with concentration, as if he were willing something to happen. Goose bumps spread up Tag's arm. Walker had never acted like this before. Whatever was going on, he didn't like it a bit.

Walker opened his eyes.

Tag zapped his eyes closed. “Maybe if you got me started, since my imagination is a bit dry these days.”

Silence echoed around Tag. He squeezed his eyes even tighter, letting his mind free-fall.

Walker's voice came from an eternity away, “Five people huddle in a circle around a fire. The fire's smoke curls up the back wall and drifts along the roof and out the smoke holes above the doorway . . .”

Smoke tickled Tag's nose.

“A young boy holds out a bowl for some stew. His mother, swollen with child, scoops stew out the large pot on the fire.”

Small Cub
. The words burst into Tag's mind.

“The boy's uncle is sitting next to him . . .”

Tag saw a young man about nineteen, with a strong face and waist-length black hair, dressed in a loincloth.
White Badger, the Warrior Chief
.

A girl, fifteen or so, with a beautiful oval face, handed White Badger a mug. A loose, mantle-type blouse covered one of her shoulders, leaving the other bare. A short, woven skirt completed her outfit.
Flute Maiden, the medicine woman
—the words rang through Tag's mind. He knew her, somehow.

The last person around the fire emerged. It was the fragile old man with the wooden staff.
Great Owl
. He peered at Tag with dark, ageless eyes. “The answers are here, but you must . . .”

Tag ripped his eyes open. Sweat ran down his forehead. Ice water swelled in his veins. Pain thrashed through his head. He sprang to his feet. Fear replaced the ice water. Tag tumbled out of the low door. He gulped in the fresh, cool air. His eyes swam.
I'm going crazy!

Sprinting, he started up the paved trail with its many steps. He needed to get out of the canyon. Tag took the stairs two steps at a time. How on earth could he have fantasized
those ancient people so clearly, known their names, and felt that he actually knew them? How?

“You must search, search for the answers,” Great Owl's voice from came nowhere.

Tag covered his ears with his hands and leaped up the next set of steps. It was bad enough that he was hearing voices, but now he was seeing people—ancient people at that.
I've spent too much time hanging around these dumb ruins!
He tried to find a logical explanation. There had to be an explanation for the vivid people he just had witnessed. Hallucination.
No, Walker! He told me to
see
the people who lived in the ruin. Of course, it is Walker. Somehow, some way, he made me see those people. He's a witch or something!

He collided with someone. The man was totally bald, with anchor tattoos decorating his hairy arms. The man's camera sailed to the ground. Behind the man, a hoard of tourists glared at him and blocked the trail.

Tag darted off the blacktop onto a narrow rock ledge, and made his way in front of ruins, still lying in shambles. A tree branch snagged his shirt. Ripping it free, he kept going, trying to ignore the images and sounds of ancient women chatting around T-shaped doors that no longer existed in the tumble down walls.

Cresting the rim, he ran through the trees. Where was he? He laughed. What did it matter anyway? If you didn't know
who
you were, it didn't matter
where
you where. You were still lost!

A log cabin appeared. He had walked there with Mr. O'Farrell and Walker one evening just last week. It was the original Ranger Station, and Mr. O'Farrell had told all kinds of tales about the place. Off limits to the tourists, it
stood forsaken in the lengthening shadows of the late afternoon.

Out of breath, with a side ache stabbing at him, Tag collapsed on the front step of the cabin. He heard a woman's voice from behind the closed door. “That man is always sending a hungry stomach my way.” Her southern accent drew each word out. “Guess he remembers his own blue belly being empty all though the War Between the States.”

Tag leaped up and off the step. As he ran through the forest, a man's voice echoed through the trees. “Many people claim to have seen the ghost boy drifting in and out of the ruins after dusk. He's searching for his family who abandoned him here. Abandoned him . . . abandoned him . . .” The words ricocheted through Tag's mind like a bullet.

“Who is on your tail, Tag?” Mr. O'Farrell sat at the kitchen table with Gary.

Without an answer, Tag scrambled to the bedroom and slammed the door.
I'm going stark-raving mad!
He flopped down on his bunk and curled into a ball.

Later, Tag wasn't sure how long, Mr. O'Farrell came into the room. He felt his hands on his shoulder.

“Would you like something to eat?”

Tag curled up tighter, his face to the wall.

After a while, Gary came in and sat down on the bunk. He just sat there waiting, without saying anything. Finally he said, “Tag, let us help you.” He left a while later, without Tag saying a word.

The room grew dark. Tag heard Walker's voice in the living room talking with the O'Farrells. For the last week,
Walker had come to dinner every evening. Tag crawled under the blanket and pulled it over his head. He didn't want to see Walker. In some incomprehensible way Walker was responsible for what was happening to him. He was a sorcerer or something worse. Under the light blanket, Tag curled tighter into his protective ball.

“You will have to go to the hearing tomorrow, Tag.” Mr. O'Farrell sat down on the bed next to him. “If I can't persuade the judge to continue my custody, they'll send you to a Phoenix juvenile facility in the afternoon.”

“I don't care,” Tag answered without looking at him.

“Well, I certainly do. Be ready to leave at nine o'clock.” Mr. O'Farrell pulled up the window blind, letting sunlight surge through the small room. He stalked out of the doorway.

Tag closed his eyes. Had it been three days since the incident at the canyon? He had lost track of day and night, not leaving the bedroom even to shower or eat. Fear kept him trapped there, fear of voices and ghosts.

I'd rather be in Phoenix. At least there aren't voices and ghosts there
. Tag put his hands over his eyes. Or would the voices and ghosts just follow him wherever he went?

Tag hardly recognized Walker sitting in the back seat of the Bronco the next morning. Walker, his long hair tied at the back, wore a white, button-down shirt, blue jeans, and tennis shoes. The clothes were new. He looked like a totally different person, except for the thin leather strap of the pendant that hung around his neck and disappeared into his shirt. Tag looked into Walker's eyes—they were the same pools of endlessness.

Walker smiled. Tag slammed the door and stared out the window without a word. What was Walker doing there? Why was he going with them? What did Walker have to do with the custody hearing? Tag bit his lip as the Bronco left the entrance to Walnut Canyon.
Please, just don't let me see or hear anything
, he prayed silently.

Mr. O'Farrell's firm voice filtered through the closed door of the judges' chamber. Sitting on a bench just outside the door, Tag tried to make out the words. Walker sat on a bench across the narrow hallway. His eyes had that faraway gaze. Tag got the ludicrous feeling that somehow Walker was watching and listening to every word being said behind the closed door.

Tag strained harder to hear. Mr. O'Farrell's voice became louder. A voice, just as loud and firm, responded. Mr. O'Farrell's voice exploded in anger. The second voice sustained the same degree of emotion. A third voice, calmer, interrupted the escalating argument.