Walker of Time Read online

  Praise for Walker of Time:

  “This is a good story for young readers. . . . The author has done an excellent job of describing the environs of Walnut Canyon and of communicating Hopi life as an analogue of the ancient Sinagua. . . . Probably the greatest strength of the story is the portrayal of Hopi values.”

  Peter J. Pilles, Jr.

  Forest Archaeologist

  Coconino National Forest

  Flagstaff, Arizona

  “Children should really enjoy this book. It is a treat for the imagination. . . . I appreciate the attention and sensitivity to cultural and environmental values, the depiction of contrasts as well as similarities between ancient and modern life, and the friendship between the Hopi boy and the archaeologist’s son. The message that friendship can span time and cultures is an important one.”

  Dr. Connie Stone

  Archaeologist

  Phoenix, Arizona

  “. . . a delightful book, informative and instructive relative to prehistoric cultural history.”

  Ginger Johnson

  Yavapai Chapter

  Arizona Archaeological Society

  Prescott, Arizona

  “I was intrigued with this story of Walker, a modern-day Hopi caught between two worlds, and his freckle-faced white friend, Tag, ‘speckled like an egg.’ Their discoveries and moving personal encounters as they stumble into Walker’s ancient past are exciting and believable, thanks to the author’s intimate knowledge of the Hopi and their land.”

  Linda Lay Shuler

  Author

  New York, New York

  “Walker of Time is an exciting adventure which can’t fail to stimulate further reading about Arizona’s Native American past and present.”

  Richard Bergquist

  Arizona Archaeological Society

  Phoenix, Arizona

  Walker of Time

  WALKER

  OF

  TIME

  HELEN HUGHES VICK

  To Howard and Mary Hughes

  for their life-long love and support.

  With special thanks to D. Ryan Carstens,

  whose computer wizardry and

  friendship made this book possible.

  Taylor Trade

  A Roberts Rinehart Book

  A wholly owned subsidiary of

  The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc.

  4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200

  Lanham MD 20706

  Distributed by National Book Network

  © 1998 Helen Hughes Vick

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce

  this book or any part thereof in any form.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Edited by Stacey Lynn

  Designed by Harrison Shaffer

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Vick, H. H. (Helen Hughes), 1950—

  Walker of time/by H.H.Vick.

  p. cm.

  Summary: A fifteen-year-old Hopi boy and his freckled companion

  travel back 800 years to the world of the Sinagua culture, a group

  of people beset by drought and illness and in need of a leader.

  ISBN 978-0-943173-80-1

  1. Sinagua culture—Juvenile fiction. [1. Sinagua culture—

  Fiction. 2. Hopi Indians—Fiction. 3. Indians of North America—

  Fiction. 4. Time travel—Fiction. 5. Walnut Canyon National Monument (Ariz.)—Fiction] I.Title

  PZ7.V63Wal 1993

  [Fic]—dc20 92-46740

  Preface

  Walnut Canyon National Monument, just a few miles east of Flagstaff, Arizona, is a canyon shrouded in mystery. Tucked under its Kaibab limestone ledges are more than a hundred cliff ruins. These rooms made of mud and rock were the homes of an ancient culture that lived in the canyon more than nine hundred years ago. These prehistoric people thrived within the canyon walls until A.D. 1250, then very suddenly and mysteriously abandoned their comfortable rock homes to wind and time.

  Since these ancient cliff dwellers were dry farmers, growing corn, beans, and squash, modern-day archaeologists have named them the “Sinagua.” Sinagua is a Spanish word meaning “without water.”

  In 1915, Walnut Canyon was declared a national monument. By this time, unfortunately, many of the Sinagua ruins, artifacts, and burials sites had been looted by pot hunters or destroyed by curiosity seekers. Since 1915, many archaeological studies have been made at Walnut Canyon to learn more about the ancient ones called the Sinagua. Yet these studies haven’t answered the two most important questions concerning the Sinagua: Why did they leave? Where did they go? Walnut Canyon’s mysteries are yet to be solved.

  1

  Walker’s lungs were burning. The muscles in his legs were cramping up in pain with each pounding stride up the steep, narrow trail. His nose and throat felt as if they had been sandpapered raw from the dust that he kicked up in little puffs with each step. The water jug’s thick leather strap, hanging over his bare right shoulder, bit deep into his skin with each movement. Water sloshed out of the heavy, old ceramic jug, sending small streams of water trickling down his reddish-brown back. Sweat ran off Walker’s high, broad forehead into his dark brown eyes. The sweat mixed with his tears and blurred his vision. Without slowing his pace, Walker reached up and wiped the salty mixture out of his puffy eyes.

  The well-used path came to an abrupt turn. Switching back in the other direction, it traversed the steep side of the northern Arizona mesa. Walker’s worn jogging shoes slipped from underneath him. He fought to regain his balance. Water gushed out of the jug, down his back, and onto his faded blue gym shorts. He went down on one knee, hitting the rocky path. Walker felt the skin on his knee and palms scraping off as he skidded to a stop.

  Walker’s panting turned into a deep sob. His strong shoulders shook. Clenching his fist in anger, he struck the ground where he crouched on one knee. Water spilled over his shoulder and down his muscular chest.

  “He can’t die! He can’t go and leave me totally alone!” Walker cried, hitting the ground again. Even as his ears heard these words, his heart tightened with a deep sorrow that confirmed what his mind knew to be true. Náat, his uncle, the only family Walker had known in his fifteen years of life, was dying.

  Walker struggled to his feet. His entire body screamed with pain from running the three miles down the mesa to the spring and jogging back up the steep trail with the full water jug. But the pain his body felt was nothing compared to the agony that tore at his heart.

  Wiping his bloody hands on his shorts, then using the back of his hand to clear the tears from his eyes, Walker started up the trail again. His short, muscular legs pumped as hard and fast as they could.

  Cresting the mesa’s flat, rocky rim, Walker slowed his pace. Wiping his eyes again and straightening his shoulders, he tried to calm his thoughts and feelings. With quick strides, he moved along the rim of the mesa toward his Hopi village. His heart beat against his ribs with such painful fury that he had to stop to fight for his breath.

  The sunset painted the Arizona sky blood red as Walker stood on the edge of the mesa. He gazed toward the San Francisco Peaks. Well over ninety miles away, the sacred mountain could be seen clearly from the mesa’s rim.

  “Each morning with the first rays of your light, I have come here with Náat to pray to you, Taawa, our creator,” whispered Walker in a broken voice. “Each day, I have looked at the sacred peaks where the holy spirits of the Hopi people live. Each day I have found peace and harmony in seeing the three sacred peaks on the horizon. But not now, not today. Náat is dying! Soon his spirit will become a cloud and travel to Maski, the house of the dead, where his spirit will live forever.” Walker beat his clench
ed fist against his bare leg. “And I—I will be alone!”

  Walker looked down over the rocky cliffs of the mesa onto the vast desert floor below. The white man’s paved, black roads crisscrossed Hopi like long streaks of lightning. His eyes fell on the white man’s school where he had been forced to learn the bahana’s language and ways.

  What good are the bahana’s ways? Walker thought with anger. Their ways only destroy the traditional way—the Hopi way. Even their great medical knowledge can’t save Náat from the cold fingers of the god of death, Masau’u.

  Walker turned to face his seven hundred-year-old village. It looked like an ancient bahana’s motel with its long sections of straight walls containing six or seven individual doors. Much like the bahana’s motels, all the long rows of adobe homes were built around a large center area, the plaza. The bahana’s heated swimming pool would sit in the middle of the plaza, Walker thought, scrutinizing his village. Yes, the village was like a motel except that it lacked such basic comforts as running water, central heating or air conditioning, and of course, flushing toilets. He had to chuckle at that thought.

  The flat roofs of the old, one-story pueblo dwellings mirrored the great flat-top mountains on which they were built. The homes’ thick rock-and-mortar walls blended into the rocky cliffs of the mesa so well that from the desert below the village was all but invisible.

  For hundreds of years the Hopi villages on top of three different mesas had remained relatively untouched in their ancient ways. Even when the bahanas did come, the Hopi people had stubbornly clung to their old ways. It had been only in the last ten years that electrical poles had been planted next to some of the ancient dwellings.

  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 quiver
ing 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.