Walker of Time (2 page)

Walker remembered well how he had begged Náat for electricity that could bring bright light into their dark, one-room home, not to mention the wonders of the bahana's television!

“You must let the old ways light your life, filling your heart and mind,” Náat had replied, looking deep into Walker's eyes.

“Then why must I go to the bahana's school each day?” Walker countered with a scowl.

“You must learn the bahana's ways so that you can help your people survive in the old ways.” Náat closed his eyes. His lips pulled together in a tight line as if he knew that what he had just said was a contradiction, if not an impossibility. Opening his eyes, he stated firmly, “You will have great need for the old ways and the bahana's way. You will learn both.”

Walker had gone to the bahana's school each day for the last nine years and had learned what the white man felt he needed to know. He worked hard and excelled in all subjects, especially sports. Each day after school, Walker returned home to live in the traditional ways.

Náat was a loving teacher but demanded much more
from Walker than any of the bahana teachers at school did. Sitting by Náat's feet, Walker learned hundreds of the old legends and how their moral principles shaped his life. He learned the traditional way of doing everything from cooking to singing the sacred prayer songs. In the summers, Walker worked side by side with Náat in their fields. He learned and relearned all the skillful ways of planting and growing the corn, squash, and beans that they lived on through the winter. Náat pushed him relentlessly to learn to hunt with great skill and accuracy, first with a rabbit stick, then with a bow and arrow. He taught Walker independence by giving him plenty of responsibilities, many of which were above Walker's capabilities. Walker learned to extend himself to meet these challenges.

Walker could not remember the time when he didn't feel as if he were walking on a tightrope. He had to continually struggle to maintain a balance between the bahana's ways and demands and the traditional ways that Náat lived and taught. None of his friends' parents seemed so intent on their children learning the bahana's ways while insisting that they live in the old ways. Only Náat seemed to demand the impossible, and it was Náat who taught Walker to walk in balance between the two seemingly opposite life-styles.

Now, watching the evening light wash his village in a pinkish color, Walker whispered, “Náat, after you are gone, who will guide and help me find harmony between the bahana's and the old ways?” Already, he felt abandoned.

Taking swift steps, Walker went past the first section of homes. His ears filled with the familiar sounds of children playing, babies crying, dogs barking, men talking, and women
visiting. Not wanting to speak to anyone, Walker kept his eyes down. He passed many, but because he did not meet their eyes, none spoke.

Walker slipped in between the walls of two homes that formed a narrow passageway that led into the plaza. The rasping sound of corn being ground on an ancient grinding stone echoed off the close walls. A shiver raced up Walker's back. His sweaty body felt like ice. He had heard this sound every day of his life, but at this minute it suddenly took on a new meaning.

Red cornmeal
, Walker thought, hurrying past the open door of the grinding room.
I must grind red corn into meal to leave at Náat's grave
.

Walker's heart was pounding with anxious fear as he opened the heavy, old, weathered door of Náat's one-room home. The smell of sickness and approaching death filled the cool room. The small, cracked window pane let in just enough fading light for Walker to see that Náat's eyes were closed, but his chest slowly lifted the thin wool blanket that covered him.

Walker let out his breath with relief. He hadn't wanted to leave Náat even for a few minutes, but they had needed water, which meant hiking down to the spring and hauling the water back before dark.

“Taawa, thank you for staying Masau'u's deathly fingers till I came back,” Walker prayed in silence.

With soft steps, Walker went to the front corner of the room that served as the kitchen. He lit the old, tarnished kerosene lamp that hung from the open wood beam in the ceiling. Its dull light spread long, dark shadows across the room. He poured some water from the jug into the chipped, white enamel bowl sitting on the small wooden table. As he
dipped his hands into the large bowl, his scraped palms stung. Biting his lower lip, Walker washed the dirt and blood off his hands. He splashed his face with water, rinsing away the streaks of tears and sweat.

He poured water into one of the two cracked plastic cups that were stacked neatly on the table next to two tin plates and two mismatched sets of eating utensils. Taking the full cup, Walker moved the ten feet to the back of the room where Náat's narrow bed stood. The only chair in the house stood next to the bed. The wooden chair squeaked and wobbled under Walker's weight as he sat down on it.

Náat's eyes opened. He looked toward Walker. “Wayma?” Náat said in his native tongue, calling Walker by his Hopi name. His voice was a mere whisper.

“I am here, Náat. I had to go for water. I knew you would be thirsty when you woke up.” Putting his arm under Náat's thin shoulders, Walker helped him into a sitting position.

Náat's bony fingers held the cup to his pale lips. He drank in small, shallow sips. His wrinkled face was pinched with pain and weakness.

“Wayma, we must talk,” Náat said, easing back down on the coverless pillow. His crooked fingers reached up to touch the eagle-shaped pendant that lay on his withered chest. Strung on a worn leather thong, it had been cut from a seashell and inlaid with tiny rectangular pieces of turquoise. It had hung around Náat's neck as long as Walker could remember.

“You must rest,” Walker said, his throat tightening.

“It is time that you wear the pendant of our brother, the eagle,” Náat said, straining to untie the thong's knot.

Walker shook his head. “I can't. It's yours.” Walker felt
his chin tremble. Tears threatened his eyes. “It will always be yours.”

The thong slipped off in Náat's dark hand. “No, it is not mine. It has always been yours, Wayma. I was told to wear it until you needed it, and that time is now.” With his hand shaking, Náat held the eagle pendant out toward Walker. “You must wear it—always.”

Walker swallowed hard and took the pendant into his own quivering hand. He looked down at it. A tear splashed on the small blue bits of turquoise.

“Now I must tell one more story,” Náat's voice had an urgent tone to it.

Walker's heart tightened. Somehow he knew that this would be his uncle's last story. He fought back the tears stinging his eyes.

“Long ago, when I was young and strong like you,” Náat paused, lost in the memory of long-ago youth, “my uncles and grandfather took me in a wagon to a canyon southeast of the holy peaks. Eagles nested in the high cliffs. We needed eaglets. These sacred young would be taken back to the village and raised as our own in the Hopi way. Their feathers would be used for pahos, our holy prayer sticks. The canyon was full of the rock houses built in the cliffs by the ancient ones.” Náat closed his dark, sunken eyes.

Walker studied Náat's face. The once proud and smiling face was a deathly gray in the lantern's stark light. The many wrinkles of time seemed to form deep ravines in the dark, weathered skin.

The old eyes opened. From the sound of Náat's voice, Walker knew that he was struggling. “We went down into the canyon, past many cliff houses of the ancient ones. All
the houses were empty except for wind, memories—magic. We hunted and hunted, but we found only one eaglet. My grandfather said that we must go in different directions to find more. I hiked west into a finger of the canyon. There I found a narrow path that many had traveled long ago.” Again Náat stopped. His cough was becoming deeper. Beads of sweat danced on his wrinkled forehead.

“Clouds came from the holy mountain and covered the sky, making it very dark. Then the lightning came with great thunder. Rain started to fall in big drops. Lightning was all around me. I saw a cave, so I went in. In the cave was a shrine, a Hopi shrine—yet not Hopi. There was a paho on the shrine. I picked up the prayer stick. Great thunder filled the cave.” Náat's thin body shook with another deep cough. He fought for breath.

“Rest,” Walker said, holding Náat's bony hand. He felt Náat's brittle fingers try to squeeze his hand.

“Get the backpack,” Náat whispered, looking toward Walker's old, canvas backpack sitting on the floor at the end of the bed.

Walker rose and took the few steps to the pack. Reaching down to pick it up, he realized that he had not seen the old pack in more than a year. Lifting it up, he could tell that something was inside. The pack wasn't heavy, just awkward.

“I will open it for you,” Walker said, laying the backpack beside Náat.

Náat raised his hand a few inches off the bed. “No! Open it at the cave. The bahanas call the canyon Walnut Canyon. They made it a national monument to keep the homes of the old ones safe.” Náat's glassy eyes stared at Walker. “Go to this canyon. Find the cave. Must be in the
cave when sun is highest, on last day of the hunter's moon.” A series of deep coughs shook Náat's weathered body. His breath came in short, raspy wheezes. His eyes filled with an intenseness that Walker had never seen before. “In cave . . . open pack . . . Walk time . . . Time very short . . . Walk time, Wayma . . . Do what must be done . . . Come home . . . to Hopi.”

Walker brushed the long strand of blue-black hair out of his eyes. The breeze that blew up out of the canyon had unseasonably cold fingers that seemed to be pulling at his life's breath. A chill crawled up his spine and pulled at the hairs on his neck.

He leaned on the iron railing that encircled the lookout point. The metal felt cold, clammy. Walker's eyes searched the canyon below. A sea of slate gray clouds filled the six-hundred-foot-deep canyon. Only the first hundred feet of the rocky limestone cliffs were visible above the cloud level. The sky overhead matched the clouds below. The late August air smelled of rain.

Walker's hand reached up and touched the eagle-shaped pendant that now hung around his neck on the worn leather thong. An ache deep within his chest worked its way up to his throat. Walker tried to swallow the ache. His hand tightened on the timeworn turquoise pendant.

Náat, I have come as you wanted. Is your spirit one of the clouds covering the canyon, waiting for me to come down among the ruins? Or is your spirit already at Maski, the house of the dead?

Another cold breeze from within the canyon seemed to pull at him. He let go of the cold iron railing. The distant sound of thunder rolled off the San Francisco Peaks to the northwest.

“What must I do here among the ruins of the ancient ones that the bahanas call the Sinagua?” Walker asked the clouds. The only answer he heard was the wind's song as it rushed through the surrounding pines.

Walker moved to the paved trail head a few feet away and looked down. The path of cement stairs that led down to the ancient ones' ruins disappeared into a blanket of dark clouds. A bahana with an expensive camera around his neck and wearing gray running shoes appeared, trotting up the stairs. He was followed by a chunky, blond-haired boy, who was carrying a can of pop and a half-eaten bag of potato chips.

“I didn't think I'd ever make it out of there,” huffed the boy, climbing up the last step. He stopped next to Walker to catch his breath. After a few big gulps of air, he said to Walker, “Two hundred and fifty stairs up and down!” Putting a handful of chips into his mouth and munching, he looked back down the path. “It is weird down there,” he said, still chewing. “Going through all those cliff ruins is just like walking back in time hundreds of years.”

“Come on, son. We've got to hurry. Got to make it to the Grand Canyon by five,” the boy's father said, still hurrying up the path toward the Visitor Center.

The boy shrugged his shoulders, took a big gulp of his drink and lumbered after his father. “Good luck down there,” he called, looking back at Walker. “Hope you make it out.”

Walker smiled, adjusted the backpack on his shoulders, and stepped down the first of the two hundred and fifty steps. A bolt of lightning flashed down to the rocky rim across the canyon. The thunder that followed was deafening.

Walker climbed down the first set of ten stairs onto a narrow paved trail. His eyes scanned the metal Park Service sign standing at the edge of the path. “In Case of Thunderstorms Take Shelter in the Ruins,” it stated.

Lightning illuminated the darkened sky. Thunder roared in response.

A few feet further down Walker stopped to read a second sign. “The Sinagua Indians left Walnut Canyon about
A.D
. 1250. No one knows why they left the area. No one knows where they went.”