Ancient Anasazi Tasholiiwe
Prolog . . .
August 1291 AD, at the very edge of Anasazi lands and within sight of the Great River . . .
Early, early morning – the sky in the East still a dark curtain studded with stars. Thunder-from-the-Mountain, medicine man, holy man, and shaman of the Anasazi snake clan, stood, as he had for the past seven mornings, high-up on the sandstone, facing the rising Morning Star and the silhouette of the distant sacred mountains, and sang and prayed for his people. With much feeling he poured out his soul to the Great Spirit, and implored his help. Drought had come and on its heels, starvation, disease, and raiders from the north. And if these were not enough, the small stream in one of the canyons had become as a monster, devouring the earth as it ate downward and making the canyon floor useless and impassable. These were all serious challenges but nothing that couldn't be overcome by the collected strength of the clan. But now a more dangerous foe -- a dark and sinister prophet -- had arisen, a six-toed one, preaching of new ways, of strange things, and gathering forces around him to the southeast. Some of the snake clan people had left to join this evil one and others might soon try to follow. The people were confused and besieged on every side, and had even begun fighting among themselves – village raiding village that in times past were friends. Many had begun to abandon the open villages and seek refuge in caves and clefts of stone, building precarious but defensible dwellings from the rock. Even now, as he stood alone against the skyline, the old man realized that above him and to the north a war party could be watching. Yet he stood tall in the night, on the no-man’s land of the mystical and powerful Rock-Rovers, and sang his prayers. No one would dare touch him here. Here, where no mere Indian dare approach, a Shaman, with spiritual power and wisdom, a Holy Man's staff at his side, and the sacred amulet of the ‘Blue Stone’ people about his neck, might pray in peace.
The sun began to rise and the light of the Great Star was hidden by its fierce rays.
Thunder-from-the-Mountain quit his supplications, and took shelter in one of the sinuous canyons to wait out the day as he had every day since embarking on this journey to help his people. But the Holy man was old, very old, the journey hard, and fasting and prayer had taken a toll on his weakening body. As he sat in front of the small fire under the ledge, the darkness of death overtook him, but his spirit rose to meet the rising sun, leaving his mortal shell empty behind him.
“Great Spirit,” his soul pled, “Now I am free. Yet even in death I shall not cease loving and caring for my people. Will thou grant that I remain here, for a time, to watch over them and counsel them?”
The Great Spirit smiled, but with a hint of sadness in his kind eyes.
“Go then,” the Great Spirit intoned, “Watch and wait, and be my messenger and a helper to your people and those that come after. The night ahead promises to be dark . . . Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Grim fate lies ahead on the trail . . .”
August 1996 at the east shore of Hall’s Creek Bay, Bullfrog Basin, Lake Powell Utah . . .
“See, right there . . . and here, and here . . .,” you say as you point out the natural arches noted on the laminated map of the Bull Frog Basin pinned to the wall of the house boat. “But, why can’t I see them in the Binoculars,” you muse to your family as you search the sand and rock of the opposite shore. A half an hour of futile searching, and several false finds later, you decide the only thing to do is to actually hike up there. “Who wants to go?,” you ask, but compared to jet skiing, swimming, fishing, and snacking on ‘munchies’, a long, hot hike up the slick-rock seems rather extreme. “No takers? OK, then just me. I’ll be back before supper – maybe two hours,” you say as you pack some water and jump in the Sea-Ray . . . 15 minutes later, you ease the bow into a sandy rest at the opposite shore of Halls Creek Bay, and scan upward for the arches. “Should be about . . . there . . . ,” you mentally position yourself and start the long hike up, gently at first, then more steeply out of the sand and up onto the slick rock. But you are way too far south, a mile or so farther south, and heading in the wrong direction --southwest instead of due west – to find any arches. Without thinking, or even noticing, you soon enter the realm of the Water Pocket Fold, a wide stretch of twisted sandstone and slick rock, sliced by deep pockets and gullies of sinuous complexity. You follow the contours of the slick rock, trying not to slip, into one of the gullies and continue upward. But every hundred feet or so you make a forced decision – left?, right?, straight-on?, over?, down?. . . . until you are secreted well within the labyrinth of the ‘fold’. Then “dead-end.” Weary, running out of time and water, and finding yourself blocked in the forward direction, you turn around to head back, but as you do, a gleam catches the corner of your eye. “What is this?,” you exclaim as you bend a little lower to peer under a ledge. “A skeleton!” Its bleached bones lean against the back wall of the ledge. Around its neck hangs what appears to be an intricately carved jade pendant, its leather tethers still attached, gleaming in the reflected sunlight of the ledge. The bones are old, very old, and over them wrap shreds of fur and hide, windblown sand covers much of them – a single reed sandal lies at the skeleton’s feet, a wooden staff lies at its side.
Shock! Utter disbelief. “Who are you?”, you whisper. It is obviously ancient, very old, but what to do now. If this were a stone arrow head, you’d rejoice, put it in your pocket, and take it back to show the others, but this . . . this is something beyond your experience. Instinctively, you reach for the green pendent . . .and stop . . . your hand hovers above it for a few seconds while your mind races contemplating your next move.
Then you act.
You grasp the pendant and lift it in your hands. As you lift the leather thongs of the necklace, long aged, turn to dust . . . and as the dust falls to the sand a strange deep throbbing sound begins. You hear the rattle of bones and the skeleton’s skull turns to look straight at you. You want to scream but cannot. The throbbing sound increases . . . louder, and louder. Beams of light appear in the skull's eye sockets and grow brighter, and brighter, piercing your mind like twin daggers. A face begins to form over the skull, reconstituting, as if through a distant window . . . then utter blackness.
When you come to your senses you are sitting in dark room . . . before a fire. Arrayed around the fire sit three Indians with posture and bearing of great authority and power. The center one begins to speak:
“Brothers, with this prayer stick I open up your ears that you may hear and remove grief and sorrow from your hearts. You have traveled far, Brothers, and with this prayer stick I draw from your feet the thorns which have pierced them as you journeyed thither and clean the seats of the Great Kiva that you may sit at ease. With this prayer stick I wash your head and body, that your spirits may be refreshed. My Brothers, let this prayer stick condole with you on the loss of the friends who have died since we last met and wipe out any blood which may have been spilt between us . . .
“Who are you?! What am I doing here!”, you blurt out. You attempt to rise but your hands and feet are tied. “Hey, let me go! Untie me now!”, you demand.
The middle Indian speaks. “I am Thunder-from-the-Mountain of the snake clan.” “This,” pointing to his left, ”is White-Bird of the bear clan.” “And this,” turning to his right, “is Little-Bat of the gopher clan.” “We are Holy men of the people you call The Anasazi. We died struggling in prayers and supplications for our people and thus, having given our very lives for love of them, have been consecrated by The Great Spirit to remain behind; watchers, guardians, helpers in all things for those who came after us. But you, White Man, are a thief! Like all the White Men, you take what is not yours. You took my amulet, as the coyote would. Now you are in the Great Kiva where we will pass judgment.”
“But . . . But . . . you are the skeleton!??? You’re dead?!!!”, you gasp in horror.
“Death?, says the Indian, “. . . There is no death, only a change of worlds. You have desecrated our land, now you stoop to take the very belongings of the dead! Every part of this soil is sacred in the estimation of my people. Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove, has been hallowed by some sad or happy event in days long vanished. The very dust upon which you stand responds more lovingly to their footsteps than to yours, because it is rich with the blood of our ancestors and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch.”
“Did you think you were alone, White Man, when you stole my amulet!?”
“I was alone!”, you plead. “I never dreamed that . . . .”, but the speaker cuts you off.
“The White Man is never alone. The memory of my tribe and people may have become a myth but these lands swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe, and when you think yourself alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the highway, or in the silence of the pathless desert, you will not be alone. In all the earth there is no place dedicated to solitude. At night, when you think these lands are silent and you think them deserted, they throng with the returning hosts that once filled them and still love this beautiful land. The Dead are not Powerless!”
“But you were dead, I thought it would be all right to take it. You had no need of it. I often hunt your arrow points lying where you discarded them -- I have since a little child” you implore.
“Take?!”, counters the Indian, ‘Steal!”.
With that the three Holy Men whisper and confer among themselves. After a long wait, and much arguing, they again turn to address you.
“You have much to learn, White Man, and no doubt you could not sense you were on sacred ground. There is a chance too that you thought I no longer had use for the amulet.”
“To us the ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their resting place is hallowed ground. You wander far from the graves of your ancestors and seemingly without regret. Your religion was written upon tables of stone by the iron finger of your God, so that you could not forget. Our religion is the traditions of our ancestors – the dreams of our old men, given them in the solemn hours of the night by the Great Spirit; and the visions of our sachems, and is written in the hearts of our people.
Your dead cease to love you and the land of their nativity as soon as they pass the portals of the tomb and wander way beyond the stars. They are soon forgotten and never return. Our dead never forget the beautiful world that gave them being. They still love its verdant valleys, its murmuring rivers, its magnificent mountains, sequestered vales, and verdant lined lakes and bays, and ever yearn in tender, fond affection over the lonely hearted living, and often return from the Happy Hunting Ground to visit. Guide, console, and comfort them.”
“You want my amulet? Then take it honorably. Not like a grave robber!” Don’t steal it. Win it -- White Man! For once do an honorable thing and win the amulet in a fair game . . . and as we play I will teach you of the way of the people, that you may recognize sacred ground the next time you stand upon it. Even if you win not the amulet, at least you will leave with open eyes and ears, and wisdom in your heart. . .”
Epilog . . .
In an instant you are back in the cleft of the Water Pocket Fold, standing over the skeleton with the amulet in your hand. It is still late afternoon, as if time itself had stopped. A glance at your watch confirms that your ‘vision’ has taken no time at all. The sun beats down, the rock surrounds you again, the blue sky peeks in from above. Yet for you the world has changed forever. You sit for a while, weak from your experience, turning the amulet over and over in your hand. It too has changed. Changed to something much more precious than even jade. You know now you cannot keep it, for it belongs here on sacred ground.
Laying the amulet carefully next to the skeleton you speak almost in a whisper, “I am not a Holy man as you are my friend. You may yet need this to help your people.”
With that you rise and stride down out of the labyrinth towards the blue waters of the distant lake. But as you walk, the spirit of Thunder-from-the-Mountain whispers in your ears:
“Tribe follows tribe, and nation follows nation, like the waves of the sea. It is the order of nature, and regret is useless. Your time of decay may be distant, but it will surely come, for even the White Man whose God walked and talked with him as a friend with friend, cannot be exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers after all. We shall see. . .”