but they were not dead either. And scattered on the tree were all the tools and implements of the people. Unused. And in a booming voice the earth spoke: I am lost. My people are dying. I, the mother, will forsake you, my people.
After the dream, Man of Darkness sat, the sweat dripping off his brow. With his strength regathered, he had Lame Deer lead him to the chief and in clipped statements he told the chief of the dream. But he could not tell him the meaning. There were no buildings taller than mountains, there were no objects that dissected the earth. But there was a danger, and with careful consideration the chief decided to send the young warriors out, keeping behind the majority of the warriors to guard the tribe.
Man of Darkness sat and rubbed the stone, beckoning with all his might for the gods to help him. Around him he could smell the smell of death, but he could also hear the sounds of the children and women. Down from his home several men spoke of the plentiful deer this year and others commented on the abundance of the corn crop. All was well, but there was a cloud, a deep dark impenetrable cloud that surrounded Man of Darkness.
Man of Darkness heard his wife returning with the water. He could tell her walk from the others. The one step and then the sliding of the lame leg. If only he could tell her of the beauty he knew she possessed. If only he could make her heart warm with his love. But whenever he tried to speak, there were no words that could convey his feeling. Lame Deer handed Man of Darkness a gourd full of water. “It is a beautiful day, my husband,” she spoke. “Hear the children play. Soon the warriors will be back.”
“How is Flying Bird?” he asked.
“Lame Deer smiled, “Her heart yearns more and more each day, but it is a good test of her love. What is love without its portion of pain? Love, as all things, must be tempered with life.” Man of Darkness drank the water and smiled. Lame Deer entered the tent to fix the morning meal.
Man of Darkness stood and stretched his tired old body. It had been a good life. All around him he could feel the wonders of the world. He could touch the blueness of the sky and the flight of the birds. He could see the fishes swimming in the river and hear the joy songs of the children. With his feet on the ground and his hands held up to the sky, he began to sing: “Mother, Mother of us all, bring to me the answers. It is dark and your dreams confuse me. I am old and slow, my mind tortures for the truth. Mother, O Mother, Mother of us all, let me taste of the truth. Bring to me the smell of the rain and the taste of the dirt that is our soul. Take from me the darkness that engulfs me not in sight but in mind.”
But there came no answers and after a few moments the old medicine man had to sit down and rest. Sitting down on the ground, he ran his fingers over the earth. “The earth has forsaken us,” he murmered. “The mother is hiding in her sorrow.”
That afternoon as Man of Darkness sat in meditation, the warrior Eagle Claw rode into camp with the news. One day’s ride away were over 200 warriors from the south riding towards the pueblo painted and dressed for war. Immediately the chief ordered the pueblo to be deserted and the march to the box canyon one day away to begin. Everything that was not needed would be left behind. Only the animals, weapons and food would be taken. Shelter could be made when they got to the canyon. The chief did not show his fear but deep inside he knew if they did not make the canyon they would perish and the women and young men would be taken as slaves to be traded to other warrior tribes from the south.
Man of Darkness sat and listened to the noise of the tribe as they hurriedly packed important items. But deep inside himself he knew that this danger was not the full extent of his dream. His dream was like the pictures carved on the face of the peak several miles from the camp. The strange peak that rose out of the hills that was an evil place, a place of the ancients. The place where man had been long before his people. Men who left only crude scrapings on the rocks as if to warn others of the peril man walked through with each of his days.
At dawn the tribe moved out. The old were tied to drags behind horses. The women and children carried whatever items they could and circling the mass of dust and animals the warriors rode in full battle dress. The tribe would not stop until they reached the canyon and its safety. But even here the chief knew there would be a great battle and many of his people would be lost. Although the sun rose in all its splendor there was blood on the horizon and a deep sadness in the heart of the chief.
CHAPTER 3
THE SPEAR POINT
Although Shining Moon was anxious to return to the tribe, he would in no way cut short his duties looking for the danger. Instead of riding directly towards the location of the tribe, he cut large zigzags over the land. Never for a moment could he let his love make him deviate from his duty. Although there was not a moment during the day he could not feel the presence of Flying Bird beside him, he knew that his happiness was not the primary function of his life.
Shining Moon rode and looked out across the land around him. At times he felt there were many eyes that watched him. Eyes of men long dead and gone who had walked this land. In the far distance he could see the pointed peak that forever had been a place avoided by the tribe. But it was strange — even as a child when the older men told him of the peak and its bad medicine, he had always been drawn to the peak. At times when he was young he would stand and look towards the horizon and the peak, and it was as though he was drawn to the strange spiral-shaped formation that loomed up out of the rolling pinon and cedar studded hills. Many times he had walked towards the landmark but the nearer he drew, the more the fear entered into his body, and he would reach a point where he could not continue.
But when he was seventeen years old he had ridden his first pony out away from the tribe and straight for the peak. And this time he was not afraid, and as he drew nearer he felt a great strength overcome him as though the souls of many brave men entered into his body. He was confused at the stories of bad medicine he had heard during his lifetime. Stories of evil spirits that would take the manhood from men and make women lose their voices. Stories of ancient people who would come out with the night and spread disease and hunger upon people who invaded their place of rest.
He rode his pony up to the peak that looked as though a giant hand had reached down from the sky and taken a great handful of dirt and then closed its hand and let the earth trickle through its palm until it was a tall spiral and then with careful balance had picked up a great flat rock and placed it on top. It was a tall spiral with a top like a table. And then with rain and snow and time the sand structure had become rock.
Shining Moon had dismounted from his pony and walked to the rock, and once by the spiral he was amazed by the etchings ground into it. There were round faces that smiled and other faces that frowned. There were marks where men had stood and ground out images of deer and bison and other men. There were large ovals of women’s breasts and serpents that spiraled around the rock. Shining Moon had stood and run his fingers over the etchings, and he knew that in time past a man like him had stood here and carved out the faces and images. And he also knew the man was now a part of the earth around him, long dead and turned to dust. His soul a part of the trees and living things that were life.
To Shining Moon, this was not an evil place, but a place of time. A place where man had worked and tried to discover his soul and heart. Here was the mark of men trying to transcend the ages. Men just like him. And then Shining Moon, who had never drawn or thought of drawing, searched around the spiral peak and found a hard-pointed stone, and returning to the peak he spent many hours scratching at the hard rock. When he was finished, he stood back and looked at the horse he had carved on the face of the rock. To him it was not a beautiful horse, but for all time, whoever saw this figure would know it was a horse. And for a moment, Shining Moon felt immortal. He felt beyond the grasp of time and death, love and hate, hope and dreams. He was a part of the timelessness of the rock. His soul would forever stand with the rock. And another man in another age would stand and look at his horse, and he would know that he was
